


Here Comes The Sun

by Billywick, selwyn



Series: Transformers various Roleplay Fiction [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Terrible accents, and a lot of liberal interpretation of timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 82,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8035009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: calamity [kəˈlamɪti],noun; an event causing great and often sudden damage or distress; a disaster.Senator Momus could definitely be called a calamity. From his ascension through the ranks beyond his caste to his smart-mouth; the mech is trouble. And no one knows that better than Senator Sherma, who is foolish enough to fall into the Pit with this walking magnet for danger. Not to mention, a storm is brewing over the Golden Age of Cybertron. Rebellion and dissent is in the air and it's time to choose a side and stand up for what you believe is right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's some timeline inconsistencies with Megatron's rise and Orion Pax, but for the sake of our plot, try to ignore them.
> 
> Here we have: Politics, friendship, intrigues....all the fun stuff. and it's 100% hc, because there's absolutely nothing in canon about obscure Senator Decepticon Sympathizers.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Chuckles passed through the round. The new senator had the audacity of being late. To his first session, nonetheless. The entire assembly was waiting for him to make his appearance, and their minds fell easily to the stereotype clinging to the mech. Out of his caste, no matter how hard he worked, Momus didn’t belong. He wouldn’t last long, in their cultured midst.

Sherma idled in his seat, servos flicking a datapad impatiently. He had a lot to say on today’s topic of discussion, even if he knew that few things would actually lead to making a difference. The education reform was one of his pet projects though, and he would at least say his piece.

He was up first and as nerve-wracking as that was, it didn’t help that senator Momus, freshly elected, was making a mockery of them all by attending late.

 

Plating, check. Polish, check. Smug, condescending grin, check.

Momus turned in front of the mirror slowly, admiring the way the light caught on his new paint, before taking a deep vent to settle his jittery spark. The new badge of his office glittered on his chest, radiating power that he might’ve never even had a whiff of if it hadn’t been for one lucky break in an unnamed mine shaft.

“Senator... Momus,” he said, trying it out, “ _ Sen- _ ator Momus. Senator  _ Mo- _ mus.”

_ Just another crowd. Bigger and meaner, but just another crowd. A mech’s a mech, no matter what fancy function he’s got. _

Momus finally left his flat in Translucentica –  _ Translucentica! _ – to go to his date with the most powerful mecha on the planet. He was only slightly nervous.

The time it took for his transport to get him to the Grand Imperium, his smirk felt real and his gait was loosely confident. This wasn’t the posture of a meek rookie. He was seasoned.

_ Just another crowd. _

Pushing the doors to the Imperium open, he swaggered in. “Dear, dear, my most  _ sincere  _ apologies,” he drawled, weighty Helexian accent affording a foreign cant to his words, “certain things got in the way, you know how it is, and I’ve been  _ quite rude  _ in neglecting my fellow senator the favor of my presence. Momus of Helex, pronounced  _ Mo _ -mus, please restrain your adulation.”

He looked from face to face, memorizing their expressions – shock, disgust, contempt – and smiled blithely as he imagined wiping it all clean.  _ They think me an empty-headed fool, only here to place hold. Slaggers.  _ “Don’t let me stop the session from commencing, sweetsparks, just wait ‘til I’ve settled in.”

He noisily made his way up the Senate podium, giving a cheeky wave to the security director before easing in past three other senators, then finally settled in with a  _ hmph!  _ that echoed in the increasingly quiet room. When no one spoke even after he quieted, Momus looked around brightly.

“What’s wrong, dears? Need a little help getting started?” he waved indulgently at the fellow at the podium, who looked up to speak, “Don’t worry, sweetspark, I’ll let you have their  _ attention _ now.”

 

Sherma’s expression didn’t even flutter as his optics ticked over their loud newcomer. Helexians. Did they exist purely to make noise? It certainly felt that way. Momus’ introduction of himself was completely suitable to his ‘reputation’; entirely inappropriate. Sherma gave him maybe a month as a senator before he’d scramble to climb back down the social ladder he had scaled in such an unconventional stroke of luck. A month of the needling company of senators, of watching every move, breath and word through a thousand optics. A month of being scrutinized by every powerful party on Cybertron ought to be enough to break the defiant spirit of Momus’ spark.

“Yes. Well. Welcome, senator Momus,” he had no trouble mimicking the Helexian’s accent on the name. Not a gesture of mockery, but one of indifference that earned a snicker from Crosscut in the back row.

“If you’d just settle down, I would open the floor to discussion on my educational reform proposal of which a copy all of you received this morning.”

 

A copy Momus read page for page. Dry, terribly dry, but necessary reading. It would be  _ gauche  _ of him to try and upset Senator… he squinted.

Senator… Sherma.

Yes, well, it would be inappropriate and bad for his image. He gave Sherma a beatific smile instead, nodding as if to tell him  _ go on _ . He could feel the weight of other’s optics on him, and put on an good empty expression, as if he didn’t follow. Rather than acting desperate and chasing after people’s approval, he was going to make himself a pawn. Let them come to him, thinking him weak and willing, so he could nibble at their power little by little.

Momus had no pretensions about how shaky his base was here. Everyone knew a mineshaft needed good supports before the goodies inside could be dug up. He’d dig in a little, put up more supports, and then dig on.

So Momus settled in. He played with his datapad, he blinked in a not-so-subtle way like a bumpkin trying to hide his awe – not really, this place was  _ shiny  _ but he’d seen bigger buildings and worked on shinier things – and played it up. 

 

Momus’ entrance seemed forgotten by the time the round dispersed for refreshments, nothing solved, everything thrown open for debate. Sherma had done his part, said what he needed to, and earned the arguments he expected. Of course it had not come to a decisive vote. He’d only written this proposal’s first draft six months ago. Considering how long the senate took to deliberate on anything, it was amazing he’d gotten to speak on the revised version today already.

Now came the part he liked less about being a senator. The socialising. It was commonplace to enjoy refreshments and discuss the day’s topics in smaller rounds. Not to mention that the arrival of a new senator demanded a sort of party. Nothing outrageous, of course. Tasteful music was played, delicate treats were being served and Sherma parked himself near a window for the evening. It was highly unlikely he’d be approached for a personal argument about his proposal. It was what some senators called (but never to his faceplate of course) a very dull subject. Dry. Boring. It lacked the glamour and sensation of others’ ideas.

Sherma didn’t mind. He’d made his peace with his existence as an extension of the governing body with little to no power on his own. The senate was all about connections and secrets and he had few of both.

But he did enjoy watching the show, so to say. Senators stalking around each other as if they were courting, secretive nods here and there, a wink, a silent transmission. He sipped his drink and waited for Momus to make a scene. It was bound to happen, with this new blood in their midst.

 

Oh, and here came his eager little fishes, nipping and biting at his bait. The socialising period was where Momus  _ shined _ . He flitted from person to person, flirting or arguing or laughing, until everyone had at least one impression of him. Every senator here would know his name, like or not.

The people here didn’t like him, he knew that  _ well _ .

A good crowd gathered around him, listening to Momus’ story – something superfluous thing about a party, his flat, dropping all sorts of hints at his character and what he liked and all the other shallow things that defined his social status. They laughed, and parted, and Momus darted on. More specifically, to the drab mech in the corner, lurking like the wallflower he was.

“Whew,” he said, holding his drink and an amiable smile on his face, “this is real exciting work, isn’t it? Senator Sherma, yes? I must say, I do think senatorial work may be exactly what I was looking for.” 

A coy little glance, flirting so briefly it might’ve been not there at all. “Your reform is an interesting idea. It’s so…  _ efficient _ .” Not grandiose, not striking – this here was a mech who wasn’t looking to make a statement. The effectiveness of the document said he actually wanted this. Senator Sherma was a cute little cog in the machine, and wasn’t that just perfectly  _ lovely  _ for what Momus wanted. “But your framework needs tweaking. It’s nice and dandy for Iaconian high caste mecha, but that’s not going to fly in Kaon, or Petrex. Cultural differences are too wide for that sort of uniformity.”

 

Of course, eventually, Momus would take a turn on him. Sherma had watched him flit between the little groups of senators, charming, talking, gesturing and quite clearly finding angles with each of his new colleagues. Which inevitably included him. 

“Kaon and Petrex are not my primary concerns regarding education. Their infrastructure is much too turbulent to apply such changes. I was going to refer to them in an addendum.”

It’s just that _ no one  _ had bothered to ask him during the discussion, which Sherma knew would happen. A cog he might be, but he understood his own position perfectly and moved comfortably within the parameters set for his unassuming frame and mind.

“You look much happier mingling than you did on the floor, senator Momus, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

 

“And thus Iacon forges on ahead, leaving the other cities behind. Rather close-minded of you, senator. Perhaps turning your attention to a city that  _ isn’t  _ the hub of our planet would let you move your plans a little further.”

Momus smiled, and this time, there was a glint of dentae.  _ Not my primary concerns. Too turbulent. Pah! Fragging Iaconian cog, only cares about where the power flows.  _

None of his thoughts showed on his perfectly vapid expression. “I’m not offended if it’s not an insult,” he waved it off, “and I could say the same, though obviously in much the  _ opposite _ . You look like you’d rather be always up on the podium, sweetspark.”

_ Since that’s probably the only time anyone bothers listening to you. _

 

Sherma raised an optical ridge at the nickname. It wasn’t often he spent time in the company of Helexians and their peculiar way of speaking just did not express a grand amount of intelligence or a sense of propriety.

Nor did senator Momus’ expression, a devious smile decorating the striking orange faceplate. Sherma felt vaguely insulted, even though the new senator had not made such an attempt.

“I won’t deny there is a certain relief in being the speaking voice, not just an argument.”

The dig at his proposal didn’t leave Sherma’s mind though, and although he tried to play being at ease and sipping his drink with nonchalance, it bothered him. It bothered him that this upstart, smartmouth newbie would dare think he only focused on Iacon and didn’t care for the rest of their planet.

“Don’t let me keep you from making your rounds, senator. I can recognize the process of  _ currying favours _ when I see it.”

 

“A process you evidently don’t partake in. Respectable of you, senator.”  _ If you’re a fresh forge who doesn’t know a skidplate from a mudflap.  _ “I’ll make sure to update you on how my  _ favor currying  _ went. Good luck on your…  _ contemplations  _ here.”  _ Stand in the corner like the unwanted you are. _

Momus laughed, light and airy, before pushing away as he sashayed into the crowd. It parted around him, before swallowing him up. His voice carried, pitched and accented, as he continued to seed his web around the room.

The rest of the session was as it normally would. Momus socialised until it was time to go back to the floor, and he spent that time carefully arranging his notes on all the other senator’s. A few comm channels were exchanged, party invites were made. His year would be busy. Events back to back, all so he could establish his name a little more firmly.

When it was finally time to leave, he brushed by Sherma one more time. Waved an invite under his nose – a party, with Proteus and his posse. “I’d say favor currying went well, sweetspark. Don’t worry; I won’t be expecting your presence there.”

A wink, to take the worst out of his bite, and he was gone.

 

Alright, he’d give him six months. Momus had a lot more spirit than Sherma expected.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherma lost his own bet, because Momus was still as capricious (some would say obnoxious) a year later. Although his commentary continued, as did his accent persist, at least the brown-nosing took a backseat as he established his channels.

He didn’t have a posse but Sherma suspected he was the kind of personality that could easily gather one.

The few subjects that Momus brought up in the round always caused rowdy arguments. The Helexian senator did not mince his words, that much was for sure. His input brought life into the senate and Sherma recalled at least three different proposals that were direct ‘frag you’s’ to something Momus had addressed.

But he was careful to not make enemies or the waves he caused too big. Sherma admired how quickly the former foreman had adjusted to his new life and surroundings, learning to play the senate like a fiddle.

 

If you couldn’t make someone your friend, make them your lover. If not that, make them your enemy. A predictable enemy was always better than an unknowable neutral. Momus took what he could and burned what he couldn’t, always seeding a few ideas if he ever needed to change his stance.

Proteus was a fragger. Crosscut was annoying. Ratbat could walk into a smelter and Momus would throw the smelter a party.

Basically, he loved it here.

Today’s floor had been one devoid of Sherma, and therefore an exciting one. There was nearly a fistfight, when Momus goaded on the two sides of an issue until they were yelling in each other’s faces and he delicately egged them on. By the end of it, they refused to speak to each other, unless Momus acted as intermediary, and he took the power this gave him with unholy glee.

“No, no,  _ no _ , Senator Pious, of course Senator Sigmus didn’t intend to insult the most holy of our institutions,” Momus said, slick and cool, “there appears to be a misunderstanding. He merely said that  _ perhaps _ religious matters can take a backseat for more important things like –”

As predicted, another fight broke out, this time over Sigmus’ choice of words. Momus smiled as he finally broke apart one of the biggest power blocs in the Senate, shattering the military and religious unity that’d formed and been such a pain for him, in one session that was blowing up harder than Helex did during the annual miner riots. Primic power decreased, as the military seceded from Pious’ backing. Not nearly enough, and Proteus was still a seedy fragger who wanted to wrest the religious influence for himself, but Momus was satisfied with today’s work.

“Such a shame,” he mouthed as he retreated the window by possibly the most plain senator present, “the breaking of two pillars of power. It creates such uncertainty among us, doesn’t it? Really overshadows things like reform, when you don’t even have a  _ form _ .”

 

Today’s disastrous floor was entirely instrumented by Momus and his clever glossa. Sherma had watched it unfold since the very start, an ominous sense of the near future when he saw Momus turn to speak to Pious in the first place.

Trouble. He was forged to make trouble. There was no other explanation for his behaviour. There was also no explanation as to why everyone else seemed positively too charmed to understand that Momus was acting a puppet master, within the reach of his own authority and beyond.

True, he did not rule the floor as Proteus often strove to, but this was close enough.

It was almost beautiful, the way the game unfurled before them as Momus leaned back to admire his handiwork.

“Does it? A reform would indicate something flawed about the form already. Perhaps there’s no need to entirely destroy the latter if the former is sound, senator.”

Sherma had to suppress a smile when senator Sigmus hissed something about obsolete religious pomp, which did earn him a fist from Pious. It took a lot of egging on to bring senators to this level of behaviour. And yes, Sherma had to give credit to Momus for it.

“Although seeing Pious punch Sigmus may be the most entertaining thing I have seen all year.”

 

“You really should get out more, then,” Momus said, but it wasn’t mocking –  he was already too busy mocking the senators before them. “Perhaps a party or two with me, and you’ll be properly scandalized enough that this will seem like a mere… incident, at most.”

There was an inarticulate yell. Momus’ grin widened as more fists flew, and they began to actively brawl.

“Would you look at that. So impressive and austere in the beginning, but here they are, brawling like oil house mecha. People are really no different, hm? Perhaps the form is flawed, sweetspark, and you just can’t see it.”

His attention slid away from the floor, already bored. He knew how this would end. “So, senator,” he said, because why not talk to someone so boring he slingshotted into interesting? “You’ve been industriously scribbling away at your little reform for quite some time. Have you realized your wrongs in the areas I pointed out, besides your obvious wrongs about my period of office?”

 

“That got back to you, did it?” Sherma took it with good grace. He still didn’t perpetually seek out Momus’ company like some other mecha he knew, but he didn’t actively avoid him either. The Helexian was an enigma in terms of where he took his confidence from, but he had some very interesting opinions that he wasn’t afraid to share.

“It was nothing personal. Your circumstances are simply unique. And apparently, suited to be in senate.”

He sighed, watching as senators behaved like rowdy, drunken enforcers.

“I’ve made adjustments. Concerning Kaon, Petrex and Tarn. I found an efficient model at work in Altihex during one of my visits home.”

 

“Altihex? You’re from Altihex?” His interest perked up, and Momus looked at Sherma more closely. “I knew you’d an aquatic alt, but I didn’t peg you to be an Altihex forge.”

He sipped his highgrade, and leaned closer, casually stepping into the bubble of Sherma’s field so that theirs touched and mingled. “Do tell me more about Altihex. All I hear is that it’s a scary place full of water alts who’ve never seen a wheel or engine, and just snort boosters all day.”

Momus peered at Sherma. “You sound like a proper Iacon forge. Where’s the roight bloody good hometown accent ye should be sportin’, hm?” He dipped in deep into his Helexian candour, before smoothing out into something more acceptable for Iacon. “Tell me a bit of home, then.”

 

That garnered Momus’ interests alright. Altihex wasn’t known for its great contributions to the intellectual cast, but occasionally, they did produce a mech or two that were classified as suitable. And then, those mecha did everything they could not to convey the stereotype that Altihex had established during its many years of existence.

“Well, for a start, I don’t find an accent stipulates my professional capabilities. Especially not Altihexan. It more or less makes mecha double-check you for intoxication,” Sherma had never carried the accent of the lower castes of his home city-state and he was perfectly content with that. Back home, he was a figure of public ignorance, mostly. Although Altihex’ few nobles and scientists had elected him to represent them, the large mass of the population had no idea he existed.

And that was just fine. 

“What do you want to know? We don’t all interface on a beach on boosters, if that’s what you’re picturing me doing in my spare time right now.”

 

“I think I’d pay to watch you interface on a beach on boosters,” Momus leered, exaggerated and winking, “Call me up if you ever get the urge, sweetspark. I’ll bring the cameras and the drinks. And myself.”

So he’d been wrong about the Iaconian part. But still, rather shameful that Sherma was dropping his heritage just so he could rub shoulders with the hip crowd without them sniffing at him. Momus got looks all the time for the accent he sported –  rather than be chastised, he layered it thicker and dared them to say anything about. As his popularity soared, so did his habits go from  _ bumbling of a foreigner  _ to  _ cutting edge _ . He was  _ exotic  _ now, not outlandish.

He threw his energon back with gusto. The fight looked to be petering down, and Momus couldn’t decide on who he’d be supporting this time around. “Say, sweetspark,” he drawled, “now’d be a good time to shove your reform out there. People might even pay attention to it, to pat down the upsets with something nice and safe like  _ Cybertronian High Caste-centric Educational Reform of Academia, Mark Seventeen Million and Thirty _ , give or take a few more long legislative jargon. Why not give it a go?”

 

Sherma glanced at Momus, trying to discern whether or not he was mocking him. Yes, the reform had suffered a few rewrites. Yes, it wasn’t the most exciting piece of legislation to ever cross the floor.

But it was solid and respectable and Momus may just be right, even if he had a lewd sense of humor and a conniving sense for mischief.

“Mark fifty-seven.” He answered, never the mech to snap his displeasure, but he did pull his field back sharply as he stepped into the center of the room and to the podium.

Instantly, the room seemed to calm, although a groan could be heard from the ranks. Boredom or an injury, Sherma wasn’t sure, but he began speaking nonetheless.

 

Ah, mecha were already falling asleep. Never underestimate Pavlovian training to one’s presence – people seemed to take Sherma stepping up as an excuse to fall into recharge. The perfect opportunity for Momus to flit over to Sigmus and begin the process of winding in deeper into his inner circle.

As he passed the podium, he winked up at Sherma.  _ Thank you, sweetspark _ .


	3. Chapter 3

Mark fifty-seven. By the time the year was up, it’d be plodding along into fifty-eight and then well beyond that. Sherma was a dear, really, but he was just so terribly _dull_. Whatever fire Altihex was known for, it’d clearly failed with him.

 

Momus wasn’t wrong about fifty-eight, or fifty-nine six months later. Sixty however, never came. Three months and his reform had been benched for ‘review’. Sherma knew what that meant. It wouldn’t see the light of day for more than a century. If Sherma was even still in office then, he would have to fight for its inclusion from scratch, all over again.

When he stepped up today, he took his time to assess the senate floor. Some mecha looked in recharge at the sight of him. Some of them turned their optics dull and dim, trained on him with no intention to take anything he said further than this room.

Sherma cleared his vocalizer, bringing up the document on his arm, his own note glyphs glowing a soft green.

“I’d like to discuss a complete overhaul of the labour laws concerning the mines on Luna 1 and 2. Conditions there have been beyond appalling for far too long.”

Labour laws. Sherma had put it mildly. He wanted a complete revamp of the situation of the lowest caste, the miners and construction mecha that had no rights to fuel upgrades, frame improvements beyond functional repair and no time for leisurely activities.

 

There was a kind of shocked silence at that. Reforms were one thing, but _full overhauls_ ? Those were the work of whole centuries focused on only the one topic. Overhauls weren’t done _lightly_.

Momus, from where he sat in the front, looked up, audials pricking forward. Sherma doing something new and daring? This deserved to be written down in history. Perhaps he needed to go outside and check to see if the sky was the ground and the buildings could talk.

Bemused, he set aside his datapad and paid Sherma attention. “Dazzle us, senator,” he said, throwing his lot in with Sherma. Now Momus’ own bloc would _have_ to listen. The weight of power in the room palpably changed, as groups shifted and reformed. Sigmus, still angry with Pious and rather sweet on Momus now – and _hah_ , wasn’t that a laugh – nodded, drumming up more support. His bloc shifted towards Sherma as well.

Well. The floor is yours, Sherma. _Dazzle us_.

 

Sherma appreciated Momus’ attention, because it came with an entire curve of the senate and could potentially give him support. The new, heavy atmosphere didn’t daunt him in the slightest. Back when he first became a senator, he’d tried to make waves. Unfortunately, young Sherma did not understand politics well enough to be gallant about it, and soon enough, the lack of success had turned him into an inconsequential cog.

Momus and his inspirational, meteoric rise had been a fuel to light Sherma’s glimmering embers.

He rattled off reports of conditions in the mines. They weren’t unknown to the senate, but usually, fluently ignored.

“It cannot be that the very mecha who keep Cybertron alive are also the ones who benefit the least from their own, hard labour. Gentlemech,” he already heard the seething arguments to oppose his entirely preposterous new topic, and he ignored them, “It will have dire consequences if they continue to be pushed to the limits.  An entire caste has been stripped of all means of leisure or relief, and it has gone on for too long. They are mecha too, and our _responsibility._ ”

 

And now it got _personal_ . Momus tapped his datapad, optics brighter, as he listened. Everyone down at the mines knew how it went. A few petitions here and there, maybe some complaints lodged at the center. Some waves made, hopes rising up in response, and… well. _Kaput_. Gone-zo.

Though he’d never heard of a senator trying to change things. With a curious little smile on his face, Momus paid Sherma attention unlike any other – interested, captivated. Less like he was a brief amusement, and more like he was something to be _seen_.

“A rousing speech, senator,” he said, “but please, speeches cannot be the substance of your substantive. We’ll need further definitions on the particulars of locale and caste, and explore the consequences of an overhaul.”

A hush.

“I, Senator Momus of Helex, vote we continue this line of debate.”

His bloc voted with him. A glance at Sigmus, coy and sleek, and he spoke up.

“I, Senator Sigmus of Iacon, vote we continue this line of debate.” And there went his grouping.

Quietly, Momus commed a few of the others. Poked them into action.

“I, Senator Pious of Tetrahex, vote we continue this line of debate.”

“I, Senator Marum of Kimia, vote we continue this line of debate.”

There. Power shifted. Over half the Senate voted in favor, and Ratbat didn’t even bother trying to oppose it.

Momus winked at Sherma and mouthed _favor currying_.

 

Sherma didn’t feel like he usually did, a little dejected and unsatisfied. This was completely new, and he had to school his expression hard not to express his surprise. Momus had amassed more favours than Sherma could possibly keep track of. He couldn’t not look at the mech, who had the audacity to wink his way.

A smile made its way across Sherma’s controlled features, optics shining with renewed life. Maybe he could make a difference after all. Maybe he didn’t have to be the senator that put the others to sleep. Maybe he could be more than a cog.

At least, for a while.

“Thank you for your attention and confidence.”

He bowed his helm to his fellow senators, who immediately fell into a round of arguments about it. Only this time, Sherma had to be right there with them, and not isolate himself from the discussion.

 

He might’ve been putting a little too much of himself in this, but Momus couldn’t muster up the will to care. This was a topic that hit close to home, and even if his mask stayed the same, he was directing more fire into this than all the other talks preceding it. He worked down his list, shaking out favors and friendships until he had enough support to give this the fuel it needed to last out the year. Momus worked out more favors anyway, so his account always stayed in balance (if weighted in his favor).

For tonight, Sherma was the star of the show. Everyone demanded his attention, clamoring arguments and counter-points in his face as they threw everything from existing law to current troubles at him. The jaws of the senatorial beast were firmly on him, and chewing out everything he could give.

For now, Momus hung back. Sherma owed him. He wouldn’t forget and Momus would be collecting rather soon.

_::Sweetspark, let’s grab fuel at the Horizon. I’ll pay.::_

 

_::I suppose I owe you that much at the very least. And I do like not paying for my drinks. Call it an Altihexan habit.::_

Sherma felt euphoric after the success of his very controversial topic of discussion. This issue would continue to be in his servos, and with such support from multiple senators, it couldn’t be swept under the table any time soon. And he knew he owed a large portion of that to Momus.

Besides. He might even relish the chance of spending more time with the most interesting senator he’d ever met.

_::Proteus is giving me that look. I dare say I’ll be out in ten minutes.::_

 

_::That look. Should I break out the cameras?::_

Momus had on the face that said he was entirely too smug for anyone’s liking. His transport idled as he waited for Sherma. _::I’ll have to use that time to pretty myself up for you.::_

Heh. He’d seen that wide, shocked look on Sherma. He’d been expecting failure, and the sudden outpour of support was… reviving. For a moment. Momus almost saw someone interesting under the drabness.

 

:: You'll need more than a few minutes for that.::

Just because he felt grateful didn't mean he had to kiss aft in response. That was Momus’ department.

Sherma emerged a full fifteen minutes later, entering the transport looking only a little indignant.

“Senator Proteus is very unhappy.”

 

“No need to say the obvious,” Momus said, flicking his hand carelessly, “I can’t tell you if I’ve ever seen a day that mech’s looked happy, unless he’s out there ruining lives. The day we signed off the agreement for building a new prison was the first and only day I’ve seen his  _ imperial highness  _ smile. I can work with idiot senators and vicious senators, but every fool knows making a deal with a vicious idiot is asking to be burned.”

Momus scowled. The topic of Proteus always worked him up, if only because he was the very bane of Momus’ ambitions. “Let’s not talk about Proteus, he leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

Good thing he’d spotted the truth of his character before that became a  _ literal _ taste.

“Let’s talk about  _ you _ . I didn’t expect that kind of topic from you, senator – I can’t say anyone was. Here I was, sitting pretty expecting mark sixty, and you come up to that podium and blow me away.”

He smiled disarmingly. It was one of the most potent weapons in repertoire – for some reason, Iaconian mecha didn’t smile too often. Grimness was very effective when handling a hostile negotiation, but Momus preferred to keep things easy. He used his hicktown roots to justify it – don’t mind the smiling Helexian upstart, it’s the way they’re  _ taught _ , no proper manners at all – all the while his partner primped and postured while puffed up on their own pretensions. Wide optics, favored in the mines for more visual range and illumination, widened further.

“Spill the good stuff, sweetspark.”  

 

Sherma wondered if this was how Momus felt all the time. The center of attention, optics on him, audials eager to absorb what he knew and thought about any given situation. 

“I don't know if there is much to spill. I just thought I might stand for a different cause. My reform was benched, as you well know. I know a dead cause when I see it, I've played this game for long enough. But the mines...the crime rate increase correlates directly with last year's budget cut on low grade fuel distillation. I think a severely unhappy and unappreciated group of the populace is bound for senatorial support. That is technically our job. I thought about you and where you came from. You could say you inspired me, senator.”

 

“Oooh, you’re a flatterer,” Momus chuckled, “I find your persistence with the reform rather endearing –  in an entirely respectable way, of course –  but this is new turn I can’t say I’m not liking. The Senate has always… overlooked the lower castes, when making their grand plans. I hadn’t expected you, of all mecha, to be the one most mindful of the fact that we’re not all rich and cozy intellectuals.”

The truth was rarely kind, but he owed that much to Sherma, if only because he was trying to help, in his dull and insignificant way. “I like your proposals. I like the fact that you made it, all on your own. What I want to know is what you’re going to  _ do _ , senator. Did you make this plan with the expectation of success?”

He tilted his helm, restraining the vague pity. “What would you have done if I hadn’t thrown my lot in with yours?”

 

“Persistence,” Sherma didn’t exactly relax, but he kept his calm, controlled demeanour, even in the relative privacy of Momus’ transport. A fellow senator was always a source of scrutiny, even in moments of intimate, personal persuasions. Sherma had made that experience a couple of times, though mostly when he’d first become a senator and fragging his esteemed colleagues had been an exciting venture.

Now, mostly whacking out details of a reform filled his spare time.

“I am quite experienced in dragging an issue for long enough that the senate loses all will to argue and eventually, agrees. It may take a while, but I won’t surrender this issue. It’s not always about dazzling the senate and experiencing a rousing success, senator. Sometimes, you just have to sink your dentae into something important and bring it up often enough until irritated acceptance settles in.”

 

“Dig in until they give in? That seems like you.”

Was that a pointed little tone at Momus’ own methods? He couldn’t be entirely sure. “It’s slow, though. Could take centuries of constant hemming and hawing, and mecha die and are forged in that time. What’s the point of change if you can’t see it happening, if you can’t make the revolution  _ real _ ?”

Momus settled back, hands on his lap. “I’ll tell you what would’ve happened if I hadn’t supported you. You would’ve sat down, and tried again. And again. And again. Mark one, mark two, mark three, on and on, until your overhaul’s lost its teeth and the mecha whose lives you meant to change will still be starving while you pick over section A, subsection B, clause C a millennia onwards.”

His fervor edged back marginally. “It’s not an insult to you, senator, please don’t take it as such. It’s merely an observation of your methods, and their relative effectiveness.”

 

Sherma sighed, optics dimming for the first time since he’d been on the floor and Momus threw him his support. He knew his methods had their drawbacks, but he’d also been around much longer than Momus. Once the novelty of his heritage died down, he wouldn’t be an exotic good anymore. He’d be another senator who had to learn that nothing got done quickly, especially if it didn’t pertain to the upper castes of Cybertron or the residents of Iacon.

“That may be true. But you haven’t experienced any other method of mine for good reason, senator. Getting the senate to pass anything is a year-long task, at best. If it’s even the slightest hint of controversial or about the lower classes, add three years to each planned proposal. The last time I brought up something that caused argument and provoked thought, it took me a century to bring it through. If I didn’t, no one would have been angry to see it benched. “

Sherma smiled to himself. It felt good to have impact again, even if he had no idea how far he could drag this particular issue on his sheer stubbornness alone.

“You learn, the longer you stay in office, senator. The more you say, the less you matter. The more you care, the less you have power to change anything. I’ve written over a hundred proposals in my time in office. Less than half have ever made it beyond the senate floor, but the few that did, I fought for. I may not be a dazzling player such as you, Momus, but I do know how to play the game.”

 

He sat in silence, digesting Sherma’s depressing little spiel, before a familiar smirk lit up his face again. “The  _ game _ ,” he said, self-deprecating, “We make it sound so trivial, don’t we? Here we are, talking about the lives and futures of mecha, and we call it  _ the game _ .”

Momus shook his helm, his laughter turned inwards, ripping his own inflated sense of self worth to pieces. “The game. Hah!  _ The game _ . The gall of me –  I come out of the mines and I’m already calling it  _ the game _ and sneering down at other people. It’s not a game. It never was a game.”

He switched seats, from his own side to Sherma’s. “Senator,” he said, serious, “I understand what you mean to say about this overhaul. Start big, then let the crows pick it off, until the skeletons are what you get, but at least you’re getting  _ something _ . You’ll have to forgive me if I hold a little more hope in me than that, sweetspark.”

He grabbed Sherma by the shoulders and shook him gently, before bringing them close enough that their nasal ridges touched. “Here’s the plan,” Momus said, grinning, “No mores games. This overhaul of yours? I want to support it. I’m throwing my votes behind you, and I’m going to  _ show  _ you that change isn’t about bureaucratic drudgery. This isn’t going to get thrown in the scrapheap with your reform, it’s going to be  _ big _ . If I have to drag every senator with my  _ dentae _ , I’ll do it. So don’t fail me now, got it? We’ve got a long few years in front of us.”

Momus patted Sherma’s helm. “Have a little  _ hope _ , senator. It’s a big world and the future’s endless. You and me, yeah?”

 

Perhaps now was not the time to tell Momus that hope had given out on Sherma a long time ago. The mech seemed downright enthusiastic not just with the overhaul, but proving something, mostly himself and the effectiveness of his methods to Sherma. Of course, the overhaul concerned miners, so obviously this was personal to Momus as well as a challenge.

One he would inevitably lose. Sherma didn’t want to dampen his energy, wanted to bask a little and maybe siphon hope and power for himself, just enough so he could be as ensnaring as Momus, as charmingly convinced that anything was possible.

“You and I, senator.”

Sherma agreed softly. Momus had a lot to learn, but he severely hoped the truth wouldn’t break the mech down, like it had with so many others. There was a reason the senate had a fluctuating amount of members. Some could handle the game, others could not.

“If anything can give me hope, you can.”

 

“That’s the spirit.” Momus finally released Sherma, his infectious grin plastered to his face. He  _ beamed _ .

“Right, right, we need to get this moving. You and I have a lot of planning and coordinating to do. Today was a matter of luck, but I’ll have to find the support base for you to get this overhaul moving at a respectable pace. No more hold-ups because so and so can’t get his vote in the right order. We also need to look at your proposal more closely, maybe grab a legislator to look it over so the legally minded members of our lovely Senate doesn’t nitpick over the mere details. I hope you’re not too fond of recharge or partying, sweetspark, because I’ve officially laid claim on all your free time.”

He grinned cheekily. “We can print it out on that ‘lil fin you’ve got on your back.  _ Property of Senator Momus of Helex _ , hm?” A flirtatious cast, as Momus slipped back into old habits. The boring types rarely got this sort of attention, so…

Well. Why not?

 

“I do believe you’d need to court me before you get those kind of naming rights, my dear senator.” Sherma shook his helm, finding it oddly endearing how unabashedly tactless Momus could be. He didn’t mind sacrificing his spare time whatsoever. Parties, he could do without.

Recharge, not so much.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t miss the recharge as much as he thought. Nor could he have predicted just how true Momus’ words had been.

The two of them spent a lot of time together. Working. Discussing. Including a legislator here, a representative there. The overhaul had stubbornly stayed the center of the senate’s attention, and it was due to be voted on very soon.

The next morning, in fact. Sherma was nervous, but not for the success of their venture. His overhaul. No. The past two weeks, every day and night, he’d spent in Momus’ hab suite in Translucentica, hammering out minute details, smoothing over contradictions. He couldn’t remember the last time he worked so hard on anything.

And he knew very well why. It wouldn’t pass.

All the hope in the world couldn’t get this past Proteus and Ratbat. There was just no way. And yet some small part in him stubbornly refused reality and clung to Momus’ enthusiasm instead. Maybe, just maybe, it’d be enough for a small miracle.

“Perhaps you should lead the round. You’ve invested as much time and effort into it as I have.”

They were in the transport, and Sherma could already see it all fall apart under his guidance.

 

“I want you up there with me,” Momus said, tabbing through his datapad with eager energy. It took a lot of earnest effort for them to get here. He was calling up all his contacts, lining them up in place. There was an impressive power bloc against him right now, and Momus was ripping open every loophole he could find to pin his opponents in place.

“Don’t look so grim, senator. One smile, at least, remember? Your face pistons might rust into place, I’ve seen it happen. You look better when you smile.”

He was babbling. Momus tapped his pede instead, but that jostled his delicately balanced system of energon, datapads, and communication consoles arranged around him in a frenetic display of planning. Once their transport got to the Grand Imperium, however, he swept it all aside and kept only his lucky datapad that had all his materials.

A vent, and his energy was tamped down into something more honed. Deadly.

“Senator,” he said, offering his hand for Sherma to hold, “this is it. The is only the first vote, but if we pull this one off, more than the Senate gets involved. We’re talking public knowledge, media outlets,  _ hundreds _ of glamorous parties to draw in celebrities and nobles to our cause. One step, one pede in front of another.”

“So promise me. Once we’re finished up mopping our victory, you’re coming to my undoubtedly high-profile, obscenely expensive party in my flat and getting fantastically drunk with me. Got it?”

 

“Alright,” Sherma laid his hand in Momus’, sealing their pact to collaborate and celebrate. He just hoped Momus wouldn’t be too destroyed by the inevitable negative outcome. Maybe Sherma’s presence could give him something to hold onto, to keep his composure and not let the senate see him disturbed.

It was all about saving face, never letting them know how deeply into despair another denial would send you. Sherma could write a book on that.

“I promise to get drunk with you tonight. For better or for worse.”

 

“Spectacular.” With that exclamation, Momus dragged Sherma out of the transport. He lead the way with his chest puffed out and his helm high, daring everyone who met his optics to just  _ try  _ and stand in his way. He wasn’t the tallest, or the biggest, mech in the room, but Momus walked in like he towered over even the best of them.

He didn’t even try to wait. He walked onto the podium like a conqueror setting foot on his new kingdom, staring down the senators until silence fell. Momus refused to speak until they all quieted, and he set his datapad down with a decisive  _ thack _ .

“Greetings to our esteemed Senate, custodians of the Primal legacy. I, Senator Momus of Helex and my partner, Senator Sherma of Altihex, have called this session to present our proposal for the complete overhaul of legislation in regards to miners aboard the lunar mining stations. The abstract of it was presented in our previous session, and now we come to present the body.”

His surprisingly formal speech ended with a wink. It took a little shuffling to fit both of them into the podium space, but Momus edged Sherma forward until their hips grazed. “Questions, debate, and rebuttals can wait until our caucus terminates. Until then, please withhold.” His gaze lingered on Ratbat and Proteus.

“Go on, sweetspark,” he murmured to Sherma. “You can do it.”

 

Sherma didn’t hesitate. He may be collected and calm about his usually resigned disposition, but he knew opportunity when it stared him in the face and expected him to fail. No one fell asleep during his time to speak today.

Presenting the details of everything he and Momus had worked out together for two weeks of no recharge and long arguments felt...liberating. Great. As if they could really change their world for the better.

Sherma’s usually even voice took on new heights of expression today, daring to make full use of his oratory talents, which were and should be defined in any senator.

By the time he finished speaking, there was an awed kind of silence, ruling over the floor. Questions, arguments, nothing came, not yet, everyone seemingly shell-shocked. Not just by Sherma’s renewed lease on life, but also by the content of his words.

 

Good, good, everything was going  _ good _ . Momus clutched Sherma’s forearm in excitement, his field bouncing around Sherma’s placid one as his mood soared. He was in his element, and this was just the beginning.

“Hm-hm.” A vocalizer reset, obnoxiously loud in the quiet of the floor. Momus clashed optics with Proteus, his gleeful smile growing sharper as challenge bristled along his spinal strut.  _ Bring it,  _ he said silently.

And the dam was released. Questions and arguments sprung up like weeds, ripping their proposal to shreds –  or at least, trying to. Momus fielded them, using his influence to stop them from drowning them out. He threw law and precedence in the face of disbelief, refusing to be intimidated by even the wave of argument that crashed over him and Sherma, ensconced in their podium, an island among unfriendly waves.

Over and over. Hours upon hours. Arguments became heated, before being ruthlessly quashed. By the end of the first question and answer session, Momus was breathless and dripping with verbal daggers. The interlude was called, but he didn’t ease.

“One more session,” he grit out, “one more. We’re winning them over, sweetspark, I can  _ feel  _ it.”

 

“You’re doing great,” Sherma turned to Momus, honest praise and admiration in his optics. He himself was somewhere at the eye of the storm, letting nothing ruffle his composure, no matter how biting the comment or poignant the question. That’s what experience afforded him, thick proverbial plating.

Momus was dancing in the storm, trying to argue and counter and convince rather than weather it. They made a good team, never contradicting each other, at least on the floor.

“If you hold out a little longer, I think even Ratbat is going to run out of reasons to vote no.”

 

“I could just  _ kiss  _ you, we’re doing so well.” Flush with the beginnings of victory, Momus barely restrained his giggle. He dragged Sherma to the refreshments and chugged down a cube of midgrade before bouncing his heels a bit. “We have the second part lined up. Our arguments are sound. You’re coming to my party. Life is fragging  _ lovely _ .”

The interlude passed in much this manner –  Momus bouncing around Sherma and muttering unsavory comments about the other senators in his audial, before it was ended and their time on the podium had come again.

“Let’s ruin ‘em,” he said, nodding. “One more, then the vote gets called. Then it’s party and drinking all night, then again, for good measure.”

-x-

 

Landslide. Victory.

Sherma had never seen the senate so united on anything that Proteus clearly hated and Ratbat looked to be losing his lunch over. 

Sherma had also never been at the center of so much celebration, because Momus didn’t know the meaning of calm and dignified, downright brimming with the air of victory whilst his partner was stunned beyond anything.

How? How had they pulled this off? On a matter that he had been prepared to drag through the ‘Sherma method’ of senatorial debates. How had the overhaul become a success, when he never envisioned more than a few discussions and a long period of rewrites?

Momus was a bouncing ball of energy and Momus was the key to his success. His connections and his enthusiastic input had afforded them victory.

Sherma could very much kiss him for it.

Instead, he held his arm, completely numb from the passing of the first true victory.

 

Momus maintained his composure all the way up until they got in their shared transport. It was then he threw himself all over Sherma, cackling maniacally. “I told you, I told you, I fragging well  _ told you _ ! We won!”

He wrapped his arms around Sherma’s waist and squeezed with as much force he could muster. “I told you. Hope. Have hope. We’re gonna be changin’ lives, sweetspark, changin’ how the world works ‘round us one by one.” His accent thickened as the emotion in his voice heightened.

“Now, go on an’ stroke m’ego. Tell me I was roight, like usual.”

 

“You’re amazing, Momus,” Sherma had no problem with doing exactly as he was told, but there were matters he had a personal interest in which now seemed like the best time to address. He did want to celebrate, after all.

“You’re an inspiration to me,” he pulled Momus up, which wasn’t all that difficult since the mech was already all over him in the first place. When their faceplates were level, Sherma offered Momus a soft smile. Proud, and fond.

“I’d like to thank you for that.”

And that’s when Sherma kissed him, confidently and deeply.

 

_ Woah. _

Uh. Um.

_ Uh _ .

Momus’ vaunted reaction time sputtered to a stop as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening. He blinked, frozen, as his world tried to rearrange it into something that made sense. Disconnected, loose thoughts wandered in there too.

_ Huh. So he  _ **_does_ ** _ know kissing exists. _

_ So is this a celebration thing or a courting thing? _

_ He’s stronger than I expected. _

Okay. Okay. So. He  _ could  _ push Sherma back and tell him he wasn’t interested in that, only in the overhaul and their careers.  _ Or  _ he could kiss him back and throw caution to the wind.

Why  _ not _ ?!

He laughed, loud and horrible with how their mouths were still touching, and his dentae might’ve knocked into Sherma’s in an entirely unattractive way. Momus didn’t care –  he simply scrambled up into a more comfortable position on top of Sherma, legs splayed out on either side of his waist, and attacked his mouth with the same vicious enthusiasm he gave to his senatorial duties. Sherma wasn’t going to be walking away from this feeling  _ underwhelmed _ .

 

It was a mark of their victory, a celebration of their work together. And just like a debate or an argument, Momus enjoyed himself entirely too much. Sherma let him in, let him taste and explore for a good, long moment. Long enough to make this feel like a victory too, before he drew back, optics still gently dimmed.

“I’d say save some of that enthusiasm for your guests, senator. I saw your list of invitations. This is going to be a rowdy affair of potential debauchery.”

 

“I thought  _ this  _ was going to be a rowdy affair of actual debauchery,” Momus said, nosing around Sherma’s jaw, not ready to be put off by him pulling back. His hands wandered down his fellow senator’s frame as Momus tried to tempt him back into another kiss. Sherma wasn’t nearly as boring or dull as first impressions made it seem –  he just needed a little coaxing out of his flat shell. Momus  _ liked  _ working with him.

“Come on, sweetspark, there’s something to be said about starting things and then stopping. Terrible work ethic, that is. What’s a little debauchery between senators?”

 

“A public scandal waiting to unfold,” Sherma raised an optical ridge at Momus’ persistence. Perhaps he shouldn’t have encouraged the Helexian into such notions. He wasn’t entirely prepared to deal with these kind of consequences. Sherma’s servos found Momus’, stilling them on his frame. He brought them up, kissed one briefly, before decisively moving them away from his own frame.

“I won’t be one of your conquests, Momus. I just wanted to let you know I appreciate your help, and your enthusiasm, and everything you’ve done with me. I know it wasn’t for my sake, but I can take it as such nonetheless.”

 

“...is this some Iaconian practice? Kissing a mech, then telling them it’s ‘just appreciation for help’?” Momus was steadily getting more miffed, though he refused to move off Sherma. It was a point of pride. He would not slink away like a kicked hound.

“Public scandal, pfff. We’re in a sealed transport, with a drone piloting it. If we send it out to drive around randomly, no one’ll ever figure. Don’t you public scandal me.”

“Conquest?” Momus jabbed a finger on Sherma’s chassis. “What’s that supposed to mean? I wasn’t the one grabbing people an’ kissin’ ‘em!” It wasn’t even the rejection, either. It was the fact that Sherma was just so damn  _ calm  _ about it. “You tryna play me? ‘S at it?”

 

Momus’ outrage was nothing short of  _ cute _ . He couldn’t seem to handle this situation at all, being rejected without insult or any real reason to be uncivil. His accent thickened, his arguments thinned to something ridiculous. Sherma fought down the urge to grin or laugh, that would definitely be the nail in the coffin of this situation.

“I’m not playing you,” he was still calm, he rarely ever lost that disposition, no matter if he was angry, disappointed, or enthusiastic like right now. Momus’ confusion and outrage were so very typical of him that they almost became endearing qualities.

“I wanted to show you that I mean every word of my gratitude. Was it too Altihexan of me? I’m so sorry, Momus.”

 

And now Momus was beginning to feel like a fool. Not the deliberate fool he played, but like he’d gone and done something and blundered along the way so hard and so fantastically, there was no way to salvage it. Sherma’s quiet little statement was like a punch in the gut. He recalled the first time he left the mine, and the nastiness that followed.

In moments, Momus was back on his figurative feet again.

_ Just another mech. _

“Now, now, don’t go blaming your poor city,” he said, charming once more, “I’m not going around calling out Helex each time I go and scandalize some poor mech, now am I? You got me good, senator. Real good. I won’t be so easily fooled next time.”

_ Just another mech _ . Once you own your mistake, it became your tool.

Momus lounged on Sherma, as if he were a divan. “I’m going to take pictures of you at the party,” he declared, “and enjoy your hangover.”

“I wish you luck with that. I’ve never had a hangover in my life.” Sherma didn’t think much of Momus’ recovery and dismissal. This was a game of its own, and Sherma had started it off without thought. He wasn’t prepared to see it through, so perhaps it would be for the best if he dismissed it too. It didn’t bear to think about, why exactly he’d wanted to kiss Momus so badly.

“I do look forward to your guest list, senator. You’ve got quite the eccentric taste in friends.”

 

“Yeah. I do. We friends always pull jokes on another, don’t we?” Cool and calm, he slid off Sherma. “Keep your head on your shoulders, senator. Don’t want you to lose it once you attend a  _ good  _ party for the first time.”

_ Just a mech _ .

Momus summoned his grin, bright and daring. “Really, Sherma. You’re going to have a lot of fun.”

 

“I don’t doubt you.” 


	5. Chapter 5

The party was magnificent for all the wrong reasons, that somehow accumulated to become right. There were mecha of castes so low Sherma could see the dust from mines on them among the crowd.

A few other senators attended as well, Sigmus most notably. Pious never came to parties outside of his own, luscious crystal gardens and those were dreadfully painful affairs, with every word traded a barb and every glance a searching glare to find weakness. Pious’ garden parties were like going to a shooting range to be the dummy target.

Momus knew how to throw a ‘shindig’, alright. Sherma almost had fun, even if he did spend most of his evening nursing high-grade and watching the dancefloor.

The mecha that Momus invited into his impressive hab-suite had little inhibitions about dancing to the wild, jagged rhythm of the music the Helexian preferred. It was a spectacle to see them move together. Not so much the classical, romantic notion of dancing, but a sort of throwing-each-other-into-wild-swings circular dance that involved a whole crowd, not just two mecha. The only sense of beauty lay in the enthusiasm of the ‘dancers’.

 

This might be very well the first time a low-caste mech stepped a single dusty pede on the floors of Translucentica. Momus refused to hold back for his high-caste guests – this was him, unabashed and real in the dust of mines and underground music mashed together from stolen samples and the sounds of life.

He spun between his dancers and his high-profile guests, smashing together the two worlds with unreal gusto. Lights jagged through the air as the music pounded into the walls and the drink flowed freely. Momus tugged down a shot before he was back, goading on his fellow senators into drinking enough to loosen up. Last he saw, Sigmus was in the mosh pit, having the time of his life.

This party was good. He saw Sherma only a few times, but wasn’t in the mood to egg him into doing something. There would be time for that later. Right now, Momus wanted to exhaust himself with mindless partying.

He grabbed a drink –  midgrade, of course, and put it down like it was a shot of vintage high grade. The party swirled around him, until Momus pulled out onto his balcony for a breath of fresh air for his vents.

“I’m,” he said, matter of fact, “really fragging amazing.”

 

“I don’t think anyone here’s gonna argue wit’ that.” a deep rumble of a voice retorted to his left. Even the balcony was occupied with people, since Momus had invited so many to his apartment. And who would refuse so prestigious an invitation?

Certainly none of the low caste mecha that had been on the list, like the very one who currently stooped down a little to involve the Helexian senator in conversation.

Smokestack didn’t know how Radar had managed to get them invited, since only one of them was from Helex (and Radar wasn’t even a miner), but he was happy to be here nonetheless. His little companion had disappeared into the crowd, probably to throne in the center of the mosh pit. He did always love a good thrashing-through-dancing experience.

“S’a real honour ta be here, Momus’ser.”

The Tarnian mining trainformer didn’t really know how to address the mech, but he doubted that Momus really minded the botched attempt of his title.

 

“Jus’ Momus ‘s ‘nough,” he replied, finding an awkward comfort in the thick accent. It was harsher than his –  Tarnic, probably. “Senator’s fer when I’m all official an’ things. Th’ honor’s mine. Designation, mech?”

Momus leaned against the banister and looked. Up. Up. Up.

Whew. Tall one here. How’d he fit through the door? His smile grew bemused.

“Translucentica Heights. Ye ever thought you’d see th’ place up close like this?”

 

Smokestack shook his helm. He'd been more than awed when he saw the impressive building, all the more when he was allowed inside of it.

“Never thought I were gonna see cities from up so high in the sky. Name’s Smokestack. I run between Tarn, Kaon and Helex.”

 

“A freight train alt? Nice.” Momus patted Smokestack’s arm, nodding. “Get used to the view, mech. Maybe one day I’ll be waving at you as my neighbor. Dreams, hm?” Momus winked.

“Say, tell me, Smokes. It’s been some while since I’ve dipped my pedes in the ol’ three uglies, so tell me the news. What’s been happening since you were last in Helex? Anyone dead? Live? Newest gladiator champ? What do the manuals think of me?”

 

“S’alot ta cover, Momus,” Smokestack’s deep voice boomed across the balcony. There was nothing subtle about the towering mech, and he didn’t try. Well. Sometimes, when something was confidential, he’d switch to chirolinguistics, but knowing those already made him pretty isolated.

“Gladiators been brewin’ up a storm, or so word on the streets is. Someone’s been rumblin’ through all the old guard, and that’s grindin’ people the right way. “

Smokestack leaned down in an attempt to make their conversation a little more confidential. It didn’t lower the volume of his voice at all.

“But’s more interestin’ down the mines. Been readin’ this script of a feller that’s done some thinkin’. Real interestin’ thoughts, I tell yer. Bout the whole...order of things. Function dictates form n’ all that, he’s pretty much disputin’.”

 

“Oh? Sounds like things’ve been shakin’ up since I last ventured downwards. Suppose you know where a fellow can get one of these scripts?” His interest piqued, Momus paid him far more attention. Forget the news casts here –  if you wanted right and proper news outlets from the three uglies, you get the dustiest miner you can find and shake out the story from him. Deeper in the mines they were, the more the fellow knew. Fragging universal truth, bound and forged.

“What about you, mech? What you thinkin’ ‘bout them thoughts?”

 

“I think them thoughts is on point, sir senator,” Smokestack chuckled about that, which was equivalent to a minor rumble of the balcony under the trainformer’s massive pedes. It was funny that there was one of their own, up to the optics in the senatorial dealings. One of their own, even if he had been a foreman, trying to shape the future. Maybe even in their favour. A lot of hopes ran on Momus and his seat, as far as the mining caste could understand politics. And a lot of mecha believed he would do nothing at all, because the system was always stacked against them, even with exceptions like Momus slipping through the cracks.

“They’s worth readin’. Though it’s a bit...spicy, for someone like yer Moms’. I think I heard some fellers call it dangerous revolution type thinkin’. But if yer want it, I can get a copy to yer. Megatron’s got a good helm on them shoulders.”

 

“Megatron. ‘S a good name. Strong. Original Primes –  Megatronus, hm? I think I’d like a copy, if you can pop it over. I’ll give you my comm channel, and you can smuggle them spicy thoughts to me during another party. Then you can drink all my energon, like a good partygoer.”

Momus offered his arm to Smokestack. His comm glowed, offering his channel code for the mech to scan. “That’s that. Now go an’ party like you wanna bring the roof down –  that’s why I invited you, Smokes.”

 

Smokestack positively glowed with happiness at such outright permission. He’d been holding back, keeping to the side, trying not to step on any toes or on anybody. Now though, he had Momus’ personal permission.

“Thank yer very much Moms. Yer still one of us, deep down under that fancy paint.”

Smokestack bobbed his helm, then took off inside, picking out a tiny mech from the crowd and spinning him in his arms, much to the amusement of the tiny flier.

 

“Always was.”

_ One of us _ . Momus smiled, and this time, it was genuine. A little awkward and far too wide, he smiled. “Yeah, suppose I am,” he murmured to himself, regarding the newest addition to his contacts. “Momus of Helex, in the end, hm?”

His poor mood was finally gone. Momus took a deep breath again, before going back into the flat. He threaded the dancefloor and clambered up onto the minibar, hoisting his microphone.

“Heeeey, mecha! Who’s enjoying their time here?” he bellowed, and the crowd rippled as one as they shouted and whistled right back. “Good, good! Party hard, and drink harder! I haven’t bought the floor below me yet, so help me convince my neighbors they wanna leave!”

The resounding  _ yeah!  _ nearly knocked him off the minibar. “To success!” he roared, “To change!”

“To success! To change!”

With a laugh, Momus launched himself into the mosh pit and groping hands carried him over the thrashing dancers. He rode the tide of bodies until they deposited him near the buffet table, where he slumped into an armchair with a satisfied sigh.

Now. He had a few things to say.

_ ::Senatoooooooooooooooooor,:: _ he said, obnoxiously dragging out the last bit,  _ ::Get over here. Bring drinks. A lot of drinks. Like. A lot.:: _

 

Sherma did answer his summons, even with drinks, though he did not come with ‘a lot’. Instead, he had a drone follow him with a sizeable collection of drinks that weren’t from Momus’ purchased stock. There had to be some things Sherma could give to him, after all.

“Shall we drink to your health, or our success?” Sherma held out a glass to Momus, in which a dark liquid bubbled threateningly. Sherma smiled.

“One of my hometown favourites. If you can handle it, my dear.”

 

“We drink to drink,” Momus told him, “Stow the fancies for the parties, senator, I’m gonna be shoving these down your intake like there’s no tomorrow.”

The drone set the platter between them, on the table. Momus sat up straight and gave the glass of… something… a suspicious poke. “Are you already trying to poison me?” He’d had enough of Altihexian specialties, thank you.

 

“Rest assured that if I was trying to poison you, I wouldn't use my personal stash of Altihexan Molten.”

Sherma took a deep sip, smoke curling from his intake as he heaved a pleased sigh. The burning flavour of the energon was a taste of his home, a delight that reminded him of deep dives and long nights on the beach.

 

“You’re smoking.” Now Momus was even more suspicious. “I’ve seen some seedy oil houses that served me energon that might’ve been runoff from a distillery, but I’ve never seen energon that smoked.”  _ Molten. That’s what happens to a body in a smelter. _

He prodded the glass again. “Your overhaul won’t work without my aid,” he reminded Sherma, “My death could ruin our progress. Proteus will be too busy weeping over my body. The Senate would grind to a halt after losing their most beloved member.”

 

Sherma looked at him, amused, and curious. Did Momus not dare to drink what he offered? Was he intimidated by a little smoke?

“Do you really think I would assassinate you now that you’ve turned my work into a blossoming success? I’m hurt, senator,” he wasn’t not in the slightest, and he laughed to take the edge off of his words. He had another sip, engine humming with the solid scorching of his tanks.

“Of course, it may offend your delicate senses. Molten is nothing to take lightly and it doesn’t go down as smoothly as Iaconian highgrade.” Sherma reached for the glass he’d offered.

 

“Off!” Momus slapped the offending hand away. “I’m busy inspecting you, you sneak.”

Huh. Sherma was  _ smiling.  _ And  _ laughing _ . That was  _ weird _ . Not unpleasant, but  _ weird _ . Momus watched him as he took the drink slowly, feeling the of it through the glass, and continued to watch over the rim. “Who knows? I couldn’t say I know much of Altihexan culture.”

Was he still sore?

“You’ve certainly surprised me.”

Oh, yes.

He sipped it, at first, to test the flavor and strength. What flooded his poor glossa felt like paint stripper, except worse and gross. “Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.”

Momus shuddered. “Is this what you drink to forget mistakes?” he asked, smacking his mouth to hopefully soften out the aftertaste.

 

“It takes some getting used to, I’ll give you that,” Sherma kept smiling, because Momus was being ridiculous and it tickled him in just the right way. Plus, the Molten was warming his entire frame unnecessarily, and that gave him enough confidence to be a little more open, to lower defenses that he held in place meticulously ever since he became a senator.

“It tastes best after a long dive. When your tanks feel frozen over, and your plating is crusted with ice,” Sherma let a servon wander over the smooth, plain lines of his frame.

“There’s nothing better than Molten to warm you back up. Maybe it’s an aquatic alt thing.”

But he wanted to share it with his new friend nonetheless.

 

“I would like to make a note that if I die, I want your deep and sincere apology at my funeral. There’ll be a speech. I’ll drag you into Unicron’s Pits myself if you make people recharge.”

With that note, Momus slammed the drink back. He swallowed, fast and hard, and grabbed a sweet thing to act as chaser. The Molten hit his tanks like a physical blow and Momus groaned. “Frag. You  _ did  _ poison me.”

Primus.

“Gimme another.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Sherma was quick to obey the request, pouring another smoking glassful for Momus. When was the last time he cut loose and enjoyed himself at a party? He couldn’t remember at all.

“Try these whilst you’re at it,” he offered a cube of small, glowing crystals that usually served as appetizers in Altihex. If Momus was game, Sherma was prepared to give him the full experience of his home city, a place Sherma was oddly and quietly proud of, despite its many, many shortcomings.

 

“More poison. Gimme.” He shoved the cubes in mouth and licked his digits afterwards, uncaring of what Sherma might think. They were tangy and crisp, a little gel-like on the inside. Each one tasted different and before he knew it, Momus had shoved at least twenty of them in.

“I don’t know what this is, but I’ll swallow whatever you’re putting in my mouth, mech.” Another five, gushy and gooey and so, so delicious after the hellfire of the Molten. Momus considered his glass, before chugging it down again.

“Guh. Nope. Flavor’s still not different.”

More treats. Another chug. “I keep reserving judgment, and I keep being disappointed, but  _ I keep drinking anyway _ . Fragging infinite hope in progress.”

Another bite. Momus considered his hands afterwards. He could feel that buzz crawling up and down his shoulders. “Oh. Oh. Wow. I’m totally drunk. Keep me away from the balcony, I’m too young and beautiful to fall to my death yet.”

 

The Helexian’s manner of devouring what Sherma had offered was very uncouth, and very entertaining. Sherma paced himself, he always did. His youth in Altihex had taught him how to handle drink, and boosters, incidentally, and now he was a wiser mech for it. That didn’t mean he didn’t remember just how quickly Molten could bring a mech to the point of intoxication and overcharge.

“Take it easy, my dear. I’ll keep you far from any heights. It would be a shame if something happened to that beautiful paintjob of yours.”

Although Sherma did consider just how much he wanted to happen to that paintjob, but that was the overcharge talking, he was pretty sure. He admired Momus, moreso now that they had worked together, and the mech deserved better than the flighty one night stands Sherma had accumulated in his lifetime. Whoever caught Momus’ optic better damn well be stunning.

 

“It is beautiful,” Momus agreed. He toyed with the glass, before slamming in front of Sherma. It was entertaining, so he slammed it down again. “Another!”

The party was still going hard. Momus’ helm was beginning to ache from the beat. He slammed his glass again, pointed. “Another,” he demanded imperiously, “Then… then you’ll escort me to the veranda. And bring those eating things, I wanna stuff my face with them.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“I think you may have had enough.” Sherma gently pried the glass out of Momus’ fingers. It was beginning to get dented and molten from the demands of the Helexian and the manner in which he had kept slamming it down for a refill. The cube that Sherma had brought was entirely empty, and he’d only had about half of it. 

Momus was buzzing with overcharge and heat poured out of his vents.

“Maybe it’s time to call it a night, my dear.”

Sherma looked back at the inside. The wild dancing had subsided, but another kind of activity had overtaken the dancefloor. The senator looked back quite quickly; there was no need to observe debauchery, even when it happened in the confines of Momus’ home.

 

“And maybe it’s time for you shush,” Momus said. The orgy inside gave the veranda to them, thankfully, so Momus could happily stretch on the floor and stare at the sky with over-bright optics. “You,” he said, pointing a finger up at Sherma. It skewed to the right, pointing elsewhere, but Momus didn’t appear to notice. “ _ You _ .”

He shook his finger. “You’re a wily one. Little  _ sneak _ , that’s what you are. You’re doing the same as me, ain’t ye? Actin’ real dull and borin’, while inside you’re looking and planning. Fragging  _ sneak _ .”

 

“You’re getting the hang of reading mecha, aren’t you?” Sherma stood as Momus lay, watching both the prone Helexian on the floor and glancing up to the stars. He’d enjoyed the night, and the party. He almost didn’t want to go home. There was certainly enough room in Momus’ hab to have him stay. Besides, he had a drunken senator to care for.

“So I am not quite what meets the optic. Did you expect any less out of a senator, my dear?”

 

“No. ‘s why I’m real disappointed in ye.” Momus rolled, so he could face Sherma. “You haven’t read me nearly as well as you think you have. Fragging slagger.”

He rolled back onto his back. “Conquests. Really classy of ye, senator.  _ Conquests _ . Do I look like some Iacon-forge hotshot with more money than sense, sitting pretty in the Towers?”

“You’re still sore about that?” Sherma looked down, focusing his attention on Momus and his complaints. So, this was about what happened in the transport. He really shouldn’t have kissed him. It was bound to confuse the poor mech. Sherma made a note to cut down on any flirtatious behaviour in the future. Momus just didn’t seem equipped to handle every subtlety of his office.

“There’s a few idle rumors about the nature of your parties. Seeing it first-hand doesn’t dispel the notion,” considering there was a bonafide orgy going on in the hall, it wasn’t a far leap to assume Momus joined them on other occasions.

“And it would be poor form of me to accommodate any notion that you and I working together is anything less than a professional allegiance between respected friends. I’m sorry if I misled you. I’ll keep my euphoria to myself on our next victory, I promise you that.” 

 

“No. No. It’s not about  _ you _ . Ugh. So self-centered.” Momus had gotten over that long ago. “It’s about the  _ other  _ bit. My  _ conquesting _ . I don’t. You offended me.”

His finger wavered as he tried to remember his point.

“Apologize for  _ that _ . The rest can go jump in the Pits, for all I care. Do I look like Proteus and his slimy little gang to you?”

Momus didn’t give him time to answer that. He swung up onto his pedes unsteadily, and glared. It was also off, but it was the thought that counted. “You think we’re friends, senator? Then you apologize.”

 

“Momus,” Sherma almost reached out to steady him, but thought better of actually touching his fellow senator at the last moment. The Helexian just kept surprising him at every turn, and he considered his words carefully. It was time for a little more diplomacy, despite the candor of their earlier discussions.

“I do apologize. I don’t know you well enough to make such a judgement of you. I wish I did. You’re a singular mech and you’re quite unpredictable. So,” this time he offered a hand to steady Momus, though he wouldn’t be offended if the mech didn’t want to touch him, “let me say it again. I am sorry. I made an assumption, guided by poorly obtained information.”

 

Sherma was standing there, with his diplomatic talk and his flat little face that he reserved for politely telling the other senators to eat oil. It filled Momus with a particular kind of anger and rather than lean in to accept his touch, he leaned over and purged his tanks on Sherma’s pedes. Spite made him aim a little higher, to splash onto Sherma’s chassis as well.

“You,” he said, wiping his mouth, “deserved that. Apology accepted.”

 

A suffering sigh was all Sherma offered in return. Now he was definitely staying, and making use of Momus’ washrack. The fragger had no sense of behaving himself when drunk. That was something he’d learn, sooner or later. Sherma pulled a face at the putrid smell. 

“I’m taking you to berth.”

It was in no way shape or form seductive, and neither was the way Sherma grabbed hold of Momus and hefted the slightly smaller frame over his shoulder. To Pits with senatorial dignity, he’d march right past the ongoing orgy to make sure Momus would go lay down and let the overcharge dissipate before he made more of a fool out of himself.

“And you can argue with me in the morning.”

 

“Ooh, you savage mech,” Momus mockingly cooed behind him, and tried to give his aft a smack. It missed and hit his thigh. “Take me!”

The orgy was going well. Momus leaned and gave one a high-five. “A plus for performance,” he crowed, and there was a ragged cheer. “Clean the floors before you leave!”

“Frag you, senator!”

“Buy me fuel first!”

More laughter, until they left.

“Pap, pap.” Grab  _ him _ , will you? Momus gave Sherma’s aft a vindictive squeeze. “I… have a washrack in my berthroom. Go in there before you drip more, nasty.”

 

“It’s your fault I’m dripping,” Sherma deadpanned as he tried to guess where Momus’ berthroom could be. The flat was enormous, and Momus must have spent every shanix of his considerable earnings on it. 

At least, eventually, his search came to fruition. It was a massive berthroom, fit for fifteen mecha, not just the one. Dumping Momus on the berth unceremoniously was Sherma’s first course of action, locating the washracks the second.

He looked for a door, and found none. A raised optical ridge in answer.

“Really? Mirrors? Do you have some sort of special need to look at yourself whilst washing, senator?”

 

“Guess how many mirrors exist in the mines, cogsucker,” he groaned back, “if your answer’s none, ding, ding, you win a prize called sarcasm. They were new and cool and I wanted to see myself in a way that wasn’t reflected off machinery. Sue me. The designer said I couldn’t replace all the walls with them, so I put them there.”

He rolled over the berth, enjoying the massive space. “Besides, it helped me figure out where things were when I got my new frame. Do you realize how hard it is to remove a valve seal on your own, with your fingers? Damn hard!”

 

“You could have had someone help you. Or pay a medic to remove it surgically,” Sherma watched him roll around, before moving into the washrack, ignoring how absurdly open it was. He didn’t want to spend another moment smelling like tank-purge. Slathering his frame in solvent, he avoided watching himself in the mirrors. There was a level of self-appreciation that he would never reach, since he’d never gone through major frame changes. He had privileges, as an intellectual class mech. Insane vanity was not one of his vices.

At least the hot solvent felt good on his frame. He missed being encased by liquid, some time. Maybe a vacation could be arranged, once the overhaul gained enough traction.

 

“Oh yeah?  _ Hello sir, might I ask a favor? Yes, I need you to go three digits deep in me and peel out my seal, please and thank you _ . Yes, senator, that would’ve gone over  _ nicely _ . And why would I  _ pay  _ a medic to do something I can do on my own?”

He splayed out the berth, groaning again. “Mmmmm. Senatoooooooooooor. Hurry uuup. C’mere.”

 

“Patience is another thing we’re going to have to work on,” Sherma called, taking no measures to speed up his cleaning. The solvent splashing over his frame was invigorating and he dimmed his optics, humming his pleasure. 

Momus could moan and complain all he liked, Sherma would not be rushed.

He emerged five minutes later, shining, clean and definitely refreshed. Now, he should probably take his leave. He’d brought Momus to the safety of his own berth and gotten rid of the nasty spill from earlier. His work here was done, wasn’t it? Why was he hesitating to leave, standing at the edge of the berth like a nervous escort?

“You’ll be alright on your own, won`t you?”

 

“Stay a while. What’s the hurry, sweetspark?” Momus rolled to provide space and patted the emptiness besides him. “Right here, senator, you can park your shapely aft right here.”

He winked weakly. His revenge had already been had, so Momus wasn’t sore any longer. He was  _ bored _ , however, and that was a state of situation that couldn’t be permitted. “You’ve been wowing me loads. Wow me to recharge, and you can go off and join the orgy, or some such. Whatever suits you.”

A pause. “Do you happen to know any good cleaners? I don’t want to fall into the transfluid tomorrow.”

 

“Didn’t you tell your guests to clean up after themselves?” Sherma sat down, easily coerced by the drunken charm of Momus and his sprawled form on the berth. There was nothing and no one waiting for Sherma at home, so really, why rush?

The berth was Comfortable. Enough to deserve capitalization of the word. He gave a sigh, going from sitting to laying down in just a moment’s time.

“Did you get this custom made for a warframe? Because it’s ridiculous, the size of your berth. Are those thermal springs I’m feeling on my spinal strut?”

 

“I’ll be shocked if they actually do. Pf. I reckon they’ll laugh at me and splash fluids on the walls. Let them have their fun. I’m stinking rich anyway.”

A roll, and his legs were neatly across Sherma’s thighs. Momus cuddled in closer. “I asked for the biggest, fanciest, nicest berth possible. They gave me this. I think they might’ve stolen a bit of heaven and put it down as my berth. It cost more than an army of slaves, but it’s worth every credit.”

“What about you? What does our esteemed senator sleep in?”

 

“A functional berth. Well. With some features specific to my aquatic alt.” Sherma didn’t mind the contact. Momus was warm and now, mellow and pleasant. He could work with that kind of companionship.

“It can turn into a filled water-tank. I recharge in my alt, from time to time.”

It wasn’t something he found necessary to tell most of his contacts, but somehow, he wanted to offer Momus something more personal to cement their friendship.

 

“That… sounds very endearing. I want to go to your hab and see.” Momus curled in closer. Mmm, heat. He felt snuggly like this. This was like recharging next to the thermal vents, but cleaner and less crowded. “I’m no good with my alt. I didn’t actually change it, coming out. Alt mode shock and all that… figured a miner’s a miner, and becoming a sleek lil sports number won’t change it.”

“Hey… Sherma. You know, I’ve never said your designation, before. Sherma. Huh. Say, Sherma, if you had to pick, would you live on land or in water?”

 

The way Momus curled his glossa around his designation had Sherma feel...something. Something he put aside to examine at a later time, maybe once the mech fell into recharge. Momus was curled so close to him now, it would be easy to reach out and touch him. Sherma did not. He drew boundaries, and he didn’t have many friends. Certainly none he took to berth.

“I miss the water...so I’m inclined to say that’s where I’d prefer to be. But it gets lonely. You’d think with so many aquatics in Altihex, the ocean would teem with them. But it’s nothing like that. Once you dive down deep enough, you forget anything above the surface lives.  You’re alone with the quiet, it drowns out your every thought. It’s silence like you’ve never known. Darkness like...well, you might know something about darkness, being a miner. But the cold...the cold is like death. And it holds you so gently, breathes over your plating, coaxes you to just let go. To be at peace. But you know you shouldn’t, and eventually, you have to leave the peace of death behind and come back up.”

Sherma sighed, trying to let go of the melancholy in his voice.

“That makes it sound depressing, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, it sounds really damn depressing, sweetspark. Sounds like the mines. Dark. Quiet. Stay long enough, and you forget if you even exist anymore. I get why it’s peaceful, but I don’t think I’d want to lose myself like that.”

Momus shifted. He was always a restless person, constantly turning before finding the sweetspot. “Another question. You’re an intellectual class, right? How’d you become senator?”

 

“Altihex needed a representative seat. There weren’t too many mecha interested in the position,” it sounded crazy, to someone who didn’t know the game of the senate. Power, riches, belonging to the most esteemed group of mecha on the planet. But Altihexans had other values, and even their intellectuals shared their attitude to life in general. Perhaps their lax nature invited disaster to the island city.

“And of the few that remained...well. They elected me for it. I had ambitions to become someone prominent in the city state...thinking about it now, they probably just wanted me to apply my ambitions elsewhere and leave the corrupt peace be.”

Sherma leaned towards Momus a little more. He wouldn’t outright cuddle him, but they could be close enough to feel each other’s plating.

“I was terrified at first. Then, insanely proud. Then...well. I learned of the reality. You wouldn’t believe how many proposals I wrote when I first came into office.”

 

“You can show them to me. I’ll help with the ones worth looking at again.”

Altihex sounded like a strange place. Foreign. It was full of aquatics, so maybe that was why. Water forges were always a little funny. “Well, it’s good you’re in the Senate. I need a partner in crime, sweetspark, and there isn’t quite anyone who manages to be horrifically dull and awfully interesting at the same time. Altihex can’t have you, anymore.”

He reached over blindly, and patted whatever bit of chassis he found. “This? Now mine. We’re looking at the planetary scale, sweetspark. Next question.”

He flipped over. His arm smacked into Sherma yet again.

“Are you lonely?”

 

He kind of liked Momus’ way of addressing him. So casually. Sweetspark...of course it wasn’t personal. Momus called everyone and anyone his sweetspark, no matter if it was Ratbat or Pious or even Cairus. It was just the way he talked, and Sherma shouldn’t take it personally at all, yet he did.

The question was a bitter one, at least to Sherma.

He considered it.

He thought about his daily routine of life. Waking from recharge. Fueling, studying the news and various papers. Writing, unless he had something senatorial to attend to. Writing until mid-afternoon, when the calls came in. Answering those, diverting useless ones, contacts he avoided. Then, another fuel break. A little time with a holoscreen, to relax over dinner and then, ready for recharge.

It sounded dull, even as he thought about it. He tried to recall his latest one night stand. No connection, just one-sided attraction and from the other end, respect for his position. A satisfying meeting of arrays, overloads traded like currency, finished. A quick shower, and out of the door.

“Everyone is lonely.”

 

“That wasn’t an answer,” Momus pointed out. “But, I guess you’re counting yourself in everyone so… you are lonely. Why not… get a friend? An acquaintance? Hell, change your kibble and crawl into a miner’s oil house. No one is lonely there.”

Momus’ optics turned wistful. “There’s a lot of fragged up things ‘bout being a miner,” he confessed, “wage cuts. Fuel shortage. We’re worth less than the tools we use, and you never know when you might be counted as ‘unrecoverable’ during a cave-in. Tough life. We really got no one but each other.”

He chuckled. “There’s really no room for loneliness when you’re filthy and freezing, piled up on each other to share the last working thermal vent in a closed-off mine. It was terrible. We shared stories that were made up and told each other we’d be ‘rich and eating gelled energon off the hands of the Prime himself, just you wait’.”

A peculiar silence fell. Momus curled in closer to Sherma, wrapping his arms around his arm. “I miss them,” he said, soft. “I miss being around people who didn’t bother lying. I go to a million parties, Sherma, and I know a million glamorous people, and they all know each other, but Primus, I’ve never seen a more lonelier set of people than the ones at the top.”

“Sad. Lonely is sad. I know I have those damn glitches in Thymesis to pick me up, if I ever fall down. Who do you have, Sherma?”

 

Momus was taking this conversation in a direction that made Sherma ache for the ocean. To dive down deep and be surrounded by the lonely silence physically. He lived a life that others envied him for, and seldom did he find the joy in it to justify such envy. Seldom did he think that anything he did was of consequence. That he mattered.

Powerful, lonely mecha, in charge of all of Cybertron. Was there anything worse than that?

Probably.

He envied the mecha of the lower caste. How easily they found companionship, love. They had nothing, and still shared it out among themselves. Momus had known how that felt. Sherma never would.

“No one.” he answered, voice even and neutral. “I don’t have anyone, Momus.”

 

“I can be that person.” An honest offer. A kind offer. Momus, still drunk and verging on sleep, his coy expressions gone for a soft, patient stare, watched Sherma. “No one deserves to be lonely, sweetspark.”

He reached up, to hold Sherma by the cheek and tilt his helm down to face Momus. “You called me a friend. This is what a friend does. Will you let me be your friend, Sherma?”

 

The will not to touch Momus was easily broken by this offer. Sherma leaned into the touch, then pulled Momus as close as he could be, their frames flush together, sharing amiable fields and buzzed warmth.

“I would be honoured to call you my friend, Momus. You don’t make me feel irrelevant. And you’re really something special. I know your ego doesn’t need a boost, but I believe... in you and I. We have a purpose. To make something happen. And together, we really can. Today proved that.”

Power of friendship? Sherma wasn’t drunk enough to get more sentimental than this, but he was buzzed and charmed enough to cuddle into Momus. He hadn’t shared a berth with someone like this since he was forged.

 

Momus accepted Sherma’s hug. He ran his digits over the back of his helm, down that smooth curve. “Hope is a fragile, lovely thing. So is love,” he said, “and down in the dark, sometimes, all you have is hope and love.”

A soft, slow vent, as Momus’ systems wound down. “You don’t need to be lonely anymore. Not again. I’m here, for better or for worse. I’ll be here to catch you, if you fall.”

His words slurred. Momus began to hum some old miner’s ditty, looping and senseless, a hymn known protoform-deep by all those who wandered in black tunnels with only each other for guidance. And so he slept.

 

Sherma didn’t know when he’d fallen into recharge, or when he had curled so completely close to Momus, both arms draped around the mech in a gesture too intimate for friends and too comfortable to disassemble.

Morning came but Sherma didn’t wake, only nuzzling closer to the warm miner in his arms. Overcharging certainly had a way of resetting his chronometer without fail. Maybe less of the Molten would have given him a chance of waking up in time.

 

Momus released an unsightly yawn as he squirmed, twisted, and stretched in his waking up process. His plating fluffed out before settling into place, wheels spinning in their wells as he squirmed harder against whatever was holding him down.

Not waking up, however. That would take him more time. Momus used whatever was against him leverage to stretch his legs. Then his shoulders. He groaned, then moaned, then squeaked, and released every other possible noise as he twisted about like a particularly angry snake.

“Mrrrraaaagh. Ugh. Time?”

His clock drone told him the time. Momus snorted before burrowing into his berth further. “Frag.”

 

The movement in his arms was excessive and brought Sherma to a state of waking he wasn’t prepared for. Bleary blips crossed his processor and vision as his optics onlined to a faceful of gold and white.

“Dear Primus, I hope we didn’t.”

He croaked out, not moving his arms.

 

“Didn’t what?” Momus twisted so he had his legs over Sherma’s shoulders. Then again, so he was opposite. Then again, until his face was comfortably buried into his chest. “Hng. Ugh. My mouth tastes disgusting. Don’t worry, sweetspark, we didn’t ‘face. I’m sure your transfluid tastes better than the death I’m tasting.”

“By the way. Don’t move. Ugh. My frame feels stiffer than Pious’ valve after he shoved his holy texts in it.”

A dirty laugh broke from Sherma at that comment. The visual was priceless, even if it was lewd. Pious did have a fondness for his holy verses and a suspicious lack of conjunx.

“I suppose he takes his marriage to Primus a little too  _ literally _ , hm?”

Sherma had no intention of moving at all. Molten gave the worst hangovers, and he was used to it. He couldn’t imagine the shape Momus was in.

 

“Mmmm, Primus, spike me  _ hard _ ,” Momus moaned exaggeratedly, writhing, before breaking out into hoarse cackles. “ _ Oooh, I am your faithful servant!” _

Another series of cackles, before he finally settled. His optics were stubbornly offline. “Say, since we’re on the topic of ‘facing,” he said, “I’ve got a question for you. Nothing too strange, promise.”

He reached down to rap a knuckle over Sherma’s panel. “You ever taste yourself?”

 

That wasn’t strange? Sherma made a note of Momus’ shameless attitude to facing, along with all of his casual flirting. The mech was strange himself if he considered that normal conversation. Nevertheless, it was morning, they were in a berth, draped over each other and warm from recharge, and Sherma didn’t feel like he needed to pull up his walls of manners.

“Not that I recall. I kind of...I don’t really let mecha go down on me. Is that strange to you? Hm. I mean. Interfacing is sort of...just a relief, now and then. I don’t have high standards.” He chuckled at himself for that.

 

“What? Not even once? Not even a little bit?” Momus sounded horrified. He  _ was  _ horrified. What the  _ hell _ . That was no way to live. “Sherma, Sherma,  _ Sherma _ . As your friend, it is my honest duty to teach you the wonders of a good ‘face. I’m taking you out to a fancy club. Escorts. Maybe you’ll find someone who can show you how  _ nice  _ a good ‘face is.”

He patted Sherma’s panel. “Don’t worry, sweetspark, I’ll make sure he stops neglecting you two dears. Once they go south, you’ll never refuse a mouth, that’s the saying.”

 

“I’ve never in my life heard that saying. Also please stop addressing my spike and valve.” It was weird, but not uncomfortable. Sherma let his arms fall to his sides as he rolled on his back.

“What do you look for in a ‘facing partner, then? A good mouth? A solid pair of lips? Got any preferences I need to be warned about, in case I walk in on anything?”

 

“Uh.” Momus screwed his face up, trying to think of any specific examples. “I don’t really have a type. Not much choice, so you don’t get to be picky. I guess… solid? Intelligent? Not likely to steal my credits while I recharge?”

Huh. Piss poor standards indeed. “I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it. Charge is charge, yeah?”

“Besides, you can relax about walking in on anything. Too busy to be chasing afts.” Momus shrugged. “I lost my equipment back when I was foreman. Dunno where my old ‘facing buddy went off. Cuffs and collars take time and patience to set up, and I have none of those right now. Maybe later.”

 

Cuffs? Collars? Those were peculiar habits indeed, at least to Sherma’s audials. Momus must have some of those kinks that Sherma read about the lower castes employing vigorously. Although that paper had been very questionable, and considering where it came from, was filled with hypocrisy.

“There’s plenty of escorts that’ll tend to needs like that, if you want to spend the shanix. You’re a senator now. You don’t need a buddy, you just need to wave your hand once or twice.”

Sherma tapped Momus’ shoulder, an absent-minded rhythm.

“Have you interfaced with any of the senators yet? If that’s not too...confidential to ask?”

 

“Nope. Work and pleasure, gotta differentiate. I like only a handful of the others, and hate quite a lot. What, is it considered common for the senators to frag each other’s light out?” Would explain Sigmus’ interest.

“And again, it’s not like a burning need. If I’m going to be falling to pieces for someone, would rather it be a mech I can trust. An escort could do the job, but only that. I’m a cuddler and a talker afterwards. No poor escort should have to listen to me yammering in their audials after they tied me up for five hours.”

 

“Then it’s probably a wise decision not to interface with the other senators. They use everything against you. You can trust me on that,” Sherma stroked over Momus’ plating. The paint was gorgeous, and it did nothing to take away from the mech’s origins, still reflected in his frame. Sherma liked that.

“I made that mistake. Twice, actually. I’ll never forget the stone-cold smile on Cairus’ face when he used some...confidential information to shoe-horn me out of my own position on his motion.”

 

“Ouch. Who’s the second, or was Cairus the two mistakes twice over?” Momus idly wondered what the information was. “Do you want to share what he had, or should I hush up?”

Huh.  _ Yet _ . Sherma seemed to have experience in that. “Sounds rough. Want me to mess him up for you?”

 

“No, it’s alright,” Sherma shook his helm, fondness radiating from his field for Momus’ brave offer to avenge his dignity. The incident had taken place a long time ago.

“Sigmus, actually. When I became senator, you know, young and fresh? He didn’t use anything stupid I said post interfacing, at least, but that lead me to my second mistake, Cairus. It was...just something I knew, a minor little piece of information that completely invalidated my denial of his motion to reclassify medics. I mean...his motion didn’t pass either, but I was exempt from voting on it.”

 

“Funny thing. Sigmus wants to ‘face me as well. The Senate has some kinky initiation rituals. Is there an obligatory gangbang and bukkake session as well?”

He gave Sherma a consoling hug. “No fragging the other senators, got it. My array will remain high and dry, sweetspark. Unless I can somehow kill Proteus by ‘facing him. My will may not be so strong then.”

 

“I don’t want to know what bukkake is,” Sherma whispered, pressing Momus close enough to rest his chevron on the mech’s helm.

“If my wisdom can benefit you, I’ve done enough in this world.” he grinned to himself. Momus was going to do great things, whether the Senate liked it or not. And Sherma would help him, in any way he could.

 

“Is this the prelude to you confessing a horrifying sickness that will kill you in ten days?” Momus whispered back, voice totally grave, “because I only hear that kind of thing in holovids. Pits, you’re being  _ really  _ dramatic.”

A giggle. He leaned forward and pecked Sherma’s chevron. “C’mon. None of that. I’m awake and kind of ready to drag myself into the wash racks. Join me. Or, to be honest, carry me in because I don’t want to move. But I sound more generous and cool when I say join me.”

 

“Because nothing spells coolness than needing to be held in a washrack.” Sherma retorted, groaning as he untangled their limbs to do Momus’ bidding. The other senator wasn’t heavy, per say, but he was a pain to move, because he also wasn’t being particularly helpful. Still, he managed to get Momus out of berth. Mostly by picking him up bridal style, rather than dragging his frame under one arm. He didn’t have the energy to heft him over his shoulder and the washrack wasn’t all that far away.

“Let me just be clear that you’re being exceptionally generous, letting me do the heavy lifting.”

 

“You get to touch my glorious frame. Mecha line up so they can enjoy my presence, much less this.” Momus lifted a leg up, then wiggled it. “See that? Fraggin’ glory.”

He flopped around until they got in the washracks. “Ugh. Wash me. Or just like… splash solvent on me until I look semi-decent.”

 

“That’ll take a long time.” Sherma didn’t really have anything to deposit Momus on, so he pressed the switches for warm solvent with Momus’ frame, bumping him gently into the controls until they were completely drenched. Sherma lowered his burden, pedes first.

“You might have to be in here forever to be decent.”

Jokes were alright, between friends, weren’t they? Sherma usually reserved his barbs for his silent retorts when he was feeling defiant on the floor, where they amassed in his mind, waiting for opportunities.

 

Momus wiggled until he was leaning on Sherma. He gnawed on the chassis he could reach mockingly, leering up at Sherma. “You haven’t seen me be  _ filthy  _ yet, darling.”

He released the plating before he damaged the paint. “Give me a scrub, will you? That’s what friends do. Wash their other friends. And you, my sweet thing, are a  _ very  _ good friend to poor old Momus, isn’t that right?”

He tossed the scrubber to Sherma. “There you go. If you treat me well now, I’ll return the favor.”

 

“That does sound promising.” Sherma gave Momus an experimental scrub, grimacing at the squeak it made when it slipped over Momus’ wet plating. This was going to be awkward and messy and they were already soaking. Friends did this kind of thing together? He was going to have to try and see it that way.

“You do this with all your friends?” 

 

“Used to. Back in the mines. Good solvent’s hard to get, and sometimes it’s easier to let someone else wash you than do it yourself. Bigger mech cover more area, but smaller mecha know how to get the seam grit out faster. Not so much here. They sneer at you for it, for not going to a bodyshop or something.”

He held out his arm for Sherma to scrub. “Serious. I’m pretty decent at it myself. Works the magic touch,” he grinned and winked at Sherma through the mirror, “I can scrub, buff, polish. Friends do that.”

 

Sherma quirked an optical ridge, but didn’t question the long history of miner friendship. Mecha did odd things together that others would not understand. Maybe with Momus, he just had to accept certain things to move forward.

“Well. I expect you to return the favour once this grimey frame of yours remembers how to shine.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“I must protest, senator Proteus, this clause is completely absurd in the context of your remonstration. Surely, you understand that an overhaul is, as this very floor voted upon, necessary.”

This was it. Sherma could feel it in his struts, all the way down to his pedes, even as he argued against Proteus who looked about as smug as a bug as he stepped on Sherma and Momus’ overhaul with all the satisfaction of a gleeful giant, trampling ants.

This was the move that Proteus and his posse had been holding onto, shoving the ace up their sleeve until it burst out of their shoulder in a nasty mess. 

And the snide way Proteus spoke had everything to do with the indignant rage pooling in Sherma’s tanks. He’d been waiting for this moment, the glib cogsucker, as Momus would call him.

 

Next to Sherma, Momus was shaking with repressed fury. He grabbed Sherma’s hand, unseen under the podium, and squeezed it until the joints creaked. “This grants us a grace period of a week,” he said tightly, voice audibly trembling with rage, “so if you will excuse us,  _ senator _ , this session comes to a close  _ now _ .”

Even an hour later, in their transport, Momus’ fury hadn’t repressed itself. He was shaking, venting hard, looking ready to murder. “He…  _ planned  _ this,” he hissed, “He can’t abide not having power, he  _ hated  _ the overhaul the minute I turned the votes on him. Fragger.  _ Fragger _ !”

“Aren’t you angry?” he demanded of Sherma. “He just –  all that work! It was going so smoothly, until he called that  _ stupid  _ lunar agreements clause!”

 

Of course Sherma was angry. But the fury that coursed through Momus was not the same. Sherma knew something would stop them. It had been going too well, the overhaul looking to become a reality too easily. He had known someone would step in their way. It had just taken Proteus a while to find something to ground them with. Now he had, and he was unbearably smug in his victory.

Sherma couldn’t feel some components of his hand, Momus having squeezed it hard to keep himself from potentially exploding on the floor. 

“Of course I am angry. But it won’t help. This is what they do. They always, always do, when someone has a good piece of work in front of them.”

Resignation resonated within him. They stuck their necks out too far, it was bound to end badly. They should have rewritten, again, before allowing the senate to discuss it.

This was when Sherma thought woefully of sixty-one. There was a reason he perfected his proposals until no one could say anything about them other than to send them into review.

“He caught us on a formality. Something we missed. He was waiting. I bet you he’s been spending day and night, searching for a loophole. Those lunar clauses are ancient.”

 

“No. Not this time.” Momus launched himself off his seat violently, prowling in the limited space of the transport. “I  _ refuse  _ to bow to that scum-sucking piece of shareware bottom feeder. Proteus can sooner suck my ball bearings before I let him trample something good. No.”

Momus sat down again. “Okay. Setback. That’s fine. We can salvage this. Rewrite it to cover that hole, and find another legislator –  one that’s not connected to Proteus –  and have them comb that fragger over with a nanocomb. Our position got a hit, but we’re still solid for now. Show them we can recover, and Proteus loses more supporters in the long-run.”

He nodded to himself, decision made. “This is fine. We’re fine.”

 

Sherma watched him apprehensively. He knew this game. Proteus had found an in to tear them down, and he was going to exploit it mercilessly until he got what he wanted. That’s just the way things happened.

But tearing down Momus was not something he wanted to partake in. Drowning his hope would do him no good, other than making him understand that reality was far from ideal and didn’t care about how good they were trying to be.

“Marum pulled his support. He just announced it.”

 

“That’s only one senator,” Momus said, stubborn. “I have Sigmus and Pious with me. I can probably draw Geone and Mycah over as well. Ratbat and Proteus aren’t exactly buddy buddy either. Give me time to talk with Ratty, and I’ll get him to withdraw his bloc from Proteus in exchange for my support on his xeno-isolation proposal.”

He grabbed Sherma by the shoulders. “You and I,” Momus said, and shook him. “Momus and Sherma. We’re a team. We  _ will  _ pull through.”

 

He wanted to believe him. Sherma watched Momus, tried to draw on the palpable anger so he could feel the sense of righteous fury pumping Momus full of energy. But his experience demanded otherwise of him. To fold to the inevitability of their defeat.

“The xeno-isolation proposal? That’s going to stretch every outpost to their limits. We could have a trader strike on our hands if we support it. And even so, Ratbat’s never voted for any manner of positive reform on low caste proposals. He’s not an ally you can win over and trust.”

 

“Then what do you want? For us to stop? Give up? Let Proteus have his victory?” Momus leaned in, baring his dentae, “I will sooner jump back into Thymesis and pick up a drill than let him smirk at me and tell me  _ maybe next time _ .”

Momus began to scroll through his long list of contacts. He drew up his black book, where he kept the nasty secrets of his many allies. He hosted high-grade fuelled orgies for a reason.

“Ratbat can be convinced to step out, if not support. Minimal support on the xeno-isolation, then I join with him to crush Proteus’ corporate curtailing policy. He wants that gone, since it hurts his stocks. I’ll call in Integrus from the outlets and get him to talk to Mycah, and donate to Geone’s pet project in the Wastes. They couldn’t care less about the overhaul, it won’t affect them anyway.”

He looked up. “We’re not done yet, sweetspark. Proteus started the war, but I’m going to  _ finish  _ it.”

 

“I believe in you,” Sherma meant that, he really did. Momus had more defiance in him than the Altihexan had ever mustered, and his anger let him come to enough ideas for them to counteract Proteus’ first move. If it would be enough, Sherma couldn’t say. But Momus was right to fight, for as long as he could, before he went under. Using his position in the senate would only be possible for a certain amount of time.

“As much as I don’t like to bring it up, there’s a little something I know Cairus wants moved out of Praxus safely and stored. Offering an opportunity for it could bring him closer to our fold, although he won’t outright defy Proteus. Silvar’s fairly neutral too, and any way to make the overhaul more appealing for furthering his causes of spark harvestation efficiency on Luna 2 would whet his appetite.”

 

Momus processed what he had to say, before beaming. “Yes,  _ perfect _ . This is exactly what we need. Thank you, Sherma. We’re going to put Proteus in the fragging  _ dirt _ .”

He sat back down, mulling over his plans. “Come on, sweetspark, I’m going to need you for this. Sit down and cozy up –  we have a long way ahead of us.”

 

-x-

 

The fight lasted a year. A year’s worth of Momus clinging to every scrap of advantage he could dig up, ruthlessly pushing everyone he could to give him just enough power to force Proteus to backslide. He refused sleep, recreation, even his usual jokes as he focused on destroying this obstacle with a laser-like intensity.

Senators fell from his side, then came back in. Secrets, corruption, credits… they all bounced between people as Momus spun up an impressive web to force his enemies back. Sherma was his ever-present companion, offering advice, support, and a quiet strength when Momus’ emotions got the better of him.

It was a bitter year. A year spent staunching the bleeding, putting in every stopgap possible, of using everything until there was literally nothing to hold onto.

It was the last vote.

“Denied.” “Denied.” “Denied.”

Each vote from each senator made Momus’ expression stonier. When it came to his own bloc, Pious didn’t even look guilty as he denied it. Sigmus shrugged. Pious and Sigmus were sitting together again.

One by one, Momus’ allies fell away.

“The overhaul of legislature of lunar miner’s fuel agreements has been denied. Be seated, Senators Momus and Sherma.”

Momus sat. The hours passed without him doing anything. He tried to put up the face of his usual activity, but every senator in the room knew when someone had been utterly and absolutely flattened. No one would ally with him, now.

Momus was old news.

The session ended. Even when everyone left, Momus still sat in his row, staring at the podium blankly.

 

Sherma didn’t leave. Of course not. It was painfully obvious that Momus wouldn’t handle the defeat well. Sherma had seen the decline first-hand, standing by his side, even as allies drifted away, favours turned sour and secrets traded away for nothing in return. He hated the part of himself that told him sagely that he knew this would happen. That this was his youth, replayed in bright colours all over again, though with more support to be lost and a harder will than his own, broken.

His spark ached for Momus. It was his own proposal, but Momus had bled for it, had forsaken all form of comfort and living just to work harder and push, push, push.

And of course, the inevitable will of the senate was swayed against him as his appeal wore off. No longer was he the superstar of the floor. Now, he was on the backseat, reserved for him besides Sherma and his education reforms.

It was a hard truth for anyone to swallow.

The room was empty now, save for the two of them. Sherma extended his field, gently.

“We should go home.”

 

“I tried. I really did. I did, didn’t I?” he looked up at Sherma, lost. “I… I thought it would work. Everything was going so well and just…  _ where _ ? Why? A little more support, and it would’ve passed but no one cared. No one cares about the miners, they only wanted their share of the pie.”

Momus clutched his lucky datapad. “I read the news on the miners. They’re starving. Thirteen thousand declared unrecoverable, recall in place. If I hadn’t fragged this up, they’d be… they’d be…”

He dropped his datapad. It cracked on the floor, the delicate glass criss-crossed with spiderweb cracks, but Momus didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around himself, distraught. “I wanted to help. I just wanted to  _ help _ .”

 

“I know.” Sherma didn’t hesitate to reach over to him now, pulling Momus against his frame. They’d lost their sense of personal bubbles halfway through the year, when they leaned on each other more than anything else. Sherma felt his spark break at Momus’ defeated tone, the disbelief in his words. It was over. It was over and they wouldn’t be able to recover it. This was the truth he never wanted Momus to learn.

“I know you did. We both did. That’s why we fought for it. But the senate doesn’t bow to good intentions. They only bow to power and shanix.” He held him tighter, until Momus’ helm was snuggly against his neckcables and Sherma could kiss his chevron.

“It’s a fragged up world and it’s not fair. You couldn’t have done any more, Momus.”

 

“No.” He pushed Sherma away. “I could have. I could have done more, I could have given more. I didn’t give  _ enough  _ and that’s why we failed. Not again.”

He stood up. Scooped his datapad up and smoothed his thumb over the cracks. “I’m not going to sit down and shrug about how I  _ did my best _ .  _ Almost  _ doesn’t win prizes,  _ almost  _ is life and death. I didn’t settle down at almost when I could’ve been a corporate manager, or some office drone. I’m not going to settle for  _ almost _ here.”

He’d clawed his way from the lowest of the low to be here. Momus wasn’t going to settle so he could be browbeaten by someone with less empathy in spark than a metal cube. 

“They’re just another crowd. You take your mistakes and you own them. Never give them ammo against you.” Momus snapped his datapad in half. He had back-ups, anyway. “You can follow me, Sherma, or you can sit down and get the hell out of my way.”

 

So the fire had not died out just yet. Sherma felt his field flutter but he reined it in quickly. Momus didn’t need an outpouring of admiration right now, he needed solid ideas, and his support. One of the two, he would always have.

“I’m with you. Any path you choose.”

Sherma got up, ready to leave the place of their defeat behind. Momus wasn’t done. He wasn’t broken. It would take more than one rejection to douse his passion.

 

“You… mean that?” Momus’ fire was reined in again, and he looked at Sherma with surprising vulnerability. It was gone in a flash, however. “Everyone else left. What’s stopping you?”

All his allies,  _ poof _ . Ashes in the wind, scattered and gone. What stopped Sherma from leaving the sinking ship that was Momus?

 

“I believe in you. And me. We’re still meant to do something, even if it isn’t the overhaul. We’re friends. I trust you, I know you. This isn’t the end of the line.”

_ Oh and also, you are the single best mech I have ever met and I would walk into the Pit at your side. _

He wasn’t going to mention that cloying thought. There was so much else they needed to focus on, regroup with, understand and fix. There was no time for Sherma’s aching spark, even if the pain his dear Momus went through screamed at him for comfort.

“Momus and Sherma. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

 

“...yeah. A team. We’re a team.”

Momus stepped forward, curling his digits over the edge of Sherma’s collar faring. He yanked him down and kissed him, long and searing. When he finally stepped away, his smile was back in place. Perhaps a little weaker in wattage, but coy and sly.

“That’s Altihexan for showing appreciation, sweetspark, learned it from a friend I couldn’t possibly ever lose. A real dynamite fellow. Come on, no time to dawdle, we have a coup to plan.” He released his plating, and patted his chassis down. “Hope you’re not too fond of your hab, or your transport. You’re not gonna seeing those for a while  _ now _ .”

 

Sherma stared at him for only a moment, trying to wrestle down the longing that surged up through his entire frame. Now was not the time to correct Momus on the interpretation of Altihexan kissing, since he’d been the one to spread that little white lie in the first place. He longed to pull Momus back against him and kiss him hard enough for the Helexian to understand that it was no longer gratitude that fueled Sherma.

But this was not the place, or the time for confessions.

“I practically live in your suite at this point, you may as well ask me to move in.”

Sherma smiled, but that froze on his face when he saw something pale rise from the back row of the room that had seemed entirely empty.

Cairus sent them a smile to freeze over the Pit.

“Don’t mind me, senators. Although I daresay you may wish to keep your affections in aforementioned hab-suite.” 

Momus looked at the ceiling.  _ Thank you. I needed that. _

“Cairuuuuus,” he said, smiling as his attention shifted from Sherma to him in an instant, “Darling, I’ve heard quite a lot of things about you. In fact, I’ve been waiting to meet you in person, properly. Come, come, love, you don’t have anything to hide, now.”

He had one ledger of Cairus’ dirty laundry. Cairus had… what? A mere kiss?

“Skulking around, spying on people… one would think you’re a bit of a peeper, love. Not a good rep, hm?” Momus smiled. He prowled around the row, stepping to where the other senator was. “Go on,” he goaded, “broadcast it. Tell everyone what you saw. Let’s see what happens to you. I’ve got a real bone to pick, and Proteus isn’t here. You’re a suitable target.”

He drew up close, standing a full helm above Cairus. “Try me,” Momus whispered, “Go on.  _ Do it _ .”

“Are you trying to threaten me, senator?” Cairus remained entirely calm, nothing but the cold smile remaining a tell on his faceplate. He was one of richest senators of them all, and Praxus was hardly in a position to be affected by the overhaul. He’d voted against it, of course, because he knew how the system worked and how to keep those without worth down in their place.

Momus was a particular sore circuit.

“You’re overestimating your reach. You’re an expired novelty. The senate has tolerated your preposterous posturing for long enough, I daresay. It would suit you well to step down, with dignity, before you are forced to return to your rightful place. It has been a singular  _ pleasure _ , to see you parade around as the exotic pet you are.”

Cairus stepped away from Momus without losing an inch of confidence. His optics glanced over to Sherma, who presented him with steely petulance and nothing more.

“However, it is time you make way for real issues to take a stand. Be a good miner, and crawl back into the dark hole you escaped from, Momus. Being a senator is so ill-suited to a promiscuous degenerate such as yourself.”

“I don’t think you understand what our relative situations are, sweetspark.” Momus’ smile was frozen on now, as he regarded the senator in front of him with thinly veiled disgust. “See, calling me names? I’ve heard worse from mecha bigger and meaner than you. I’m not  _ trying  _ to threaten you, love.”

His black book drawn up, he began to leak them to the relevant outlets. “I  _ am  _ threatening you. I  _ have  _ threatened you. And now, I am  _ following  _ through.”

Cairus was another example. Another disgusting worm at Proteus’ pedes, wriggling to feed from his waste. “Let me make one thing clear between us. I don’t care about your money. I don’t care about your connections. And I really, really don’t care for your tacky style. I hate bullies, and I hate people who use their power for the wrong things. For you, Cairus? Threaten me all you like, love. I will laugh. I can, and will, personally burn down everything around us if I thought I could pull you down into the flames with me.”

“Step aside. Now.”

Cairus’ smile became a thin line, but he didn’t do as Momus demanded. It was one thing to use connections and secrets, it was another to be entirely confrontational about the whole situation. The white plating of the Praxian senator rustled, only slightly as his cape-like wings fanned out. Not good. Sherma knew Cairus well enough to see that he wasn’t backing down from the challenge, he was prepared to meet it.

“Oh, how quaint you are.” 

Sherma checked what he could of the outlets, and he knew they’d be flooded with shanix in this very moment to suffocate the information provided by Momus. Cairus came to play.

“Burn everything down? Don’t be so dramatic. It doesn’t suit your clunky frame. Paint it golden all you want, but you can’t disguise your simple nature.”

Cairus didn’t take kindly to threats, and he would retaliate twice as hard. He was a dangerous enemy and a beautiful mech. Sherma wanted to punch him.

“I do believe you spoke of a coup? That is dangerous thinking, dear Momus. It would be terrible if you suspected of making an earnest attempt at such.”

“A coup? Love, you’re not keeping up anymore. Money compensates for a lot of things but once it starts going up  _ north _ …” Momus clicked his glossa, “not much you can do.”

Three seconds. His comm blipped. Momus held up his wrist, and a holoscreen came up. One news outlet, broadcasting corruption in Praxian finances.

“A favor weighs more than your credits, sweetspark. One down, Another hundred uglies to go. We can have a smear campaign against each other, Cairus, love, and I think I have a heavier hit than you do.”

“Your efforts are admirable, Momus.” Cairus didn’t seem phased by the broadcast. He’d faced hundreds of allegations, and managed to put them down each time, smoothing over ruffled feathers and greasing palms along the way. His position was ironclad, his name tied into the noblest of families. 

“But smearing has gone out of _ fashion _ , I’m afraid.”

Cairus was still for a moment.

“Where is it that you came from again? Thymesis? Ah.”

Sherma bristled. He knew where this was headed. Cairus was in the process of buying Thymesis, and it would crumble in his grasp. Momus nor he had the shanix to put up a competing bid for the mine or any of its workers.

_ ::Don’t. Take. His. Bait.:: _

Momus would do something bad, if he didn’t intervene. Defying his nature to stay out of these heated sort of arguments with dire consequences, Sherma stepped forward, optics bright with an idea and mouth set in a scowl.

“Senator Cairus. It would do you well to remember what happened at the Tetrahex Steelchime concert three years ago.”

Cairus paused, optics on his new challenger with minute outrage. Sherma persevered.

“It would be a great shame for your name, would it not, if it came to light what your creation-”

“Senato _ r Sherma _ . That was confidential information. You cannot be suggesting you’d share such a delicate matter?”

Sherma’s voice remained even, but his engine growled.

“I do recall a similar use of  _ delicate information _ in the vote on Altihexan prohibition, Cairus.”

The Praxian stared. Sherma stared back.

“His bad manners are corrupting you, Sherma. You used to be such pleasant company.”

“I would suggest you take yourself and your poor berthside conduct back to Praxus, senator. Before I am forced to stop senator Momus from disemboweling you.”

Cairus sneered, but turned on his heel.

Thymesis remained in Helex’ possession, for now.

“I would kiss you again,” Momus said, after confirming Cairus’ departure, “but I think I’m angry enough that I’d try to chew your lips off.”


	8. Chapter 8

He spoke curtly. The first hit had nearly broken him. This one was testing Momus’ impressive control to a point that he looked like he might start crying.

He marched into the transport and began to methodically work out every bit of dirt he had on Cairus and spread it across the outlets. He worked in silence for an hour, refusing to look up or away from his comm, shrinking away from Sherma’s touch until he finished.

“I thought I’d seen real gutter mecha. Scums of society, nothing more than rabid animals looking for drugs or credits or fuel. But nothing compares to Iacon.” He laughed bitterly. “It’s rotten. To the core, rotten in and out, and it’s built on the corpses of people’s morals.”

“I’m going to make Cairus suffer.” Simple. Soft. The dramatics were gone. “If all else fails, at least that.”

Momus’ composure lasted another few minutes, before he slowly collapsed. It was like seeing a tower finally give into the elements –  his shoulders slumped and withdrew, back bowed, knees drawn in. The frame that broadcasted defiance in every seam and plate was suddenly small. Battered. Curling to protect itself from anymore harm.

When all else fails, and the world is falling around you, assume cave-in posture.

 

“You’ll play right into his hands,” Sherma didn’t offer him comfort this time. Momus didn’t want to be coddled or cuddled, and Sherma just had to settle for watching him slowly fall apart in the cruel light of harsh reality.

“Cairus has never been in question. He’ll run you down and out eventually. It isn’t worth the effort.”

Sherma sighed, reaching into his subspace for his emergency cube of Molten. This was definitely an occasion to make use of it. He didn’t have any glasses, so he just drank straight from the cube.

“Did you never wonder how I became as boring as I am?”

Because Sherma had been through this. Not once, but thirteen times. He’d been so resilient when he was younger, and motivated. Fiery, even. Not as fierce as Momus, not as daring as Momus, but certainly spirited.

And broken. Down and down until he was whittling on reforms that would make no difference.

“I don’t know what to tell you. We can keep trying. We should. We will. But this is what we’re up against. What we’ll always have to face.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore tonight.” Momus switched, so he sat next to Sherma. He curled against his plating with a long, shuddery sigh, optics dimming. “I’m tired. Just… just hold me, a little. I don’t want to do this.”

A small pause.

“...I think I understand why you like the deeps. I… miss the mines, now.”

 

Sherma took him into his arms, arranging Momus to be parked on his lap and leaned against his chest. This way, he could envelop him in his field, and hold him close.

“The only good Iacon has done is bring you to me,” Sherma muttered, resting his helm on Momus’. He needed to tell him so much, but it was definitely the wrong time. Momus needed him more than ever to be his solid foundation, his rock of calm in this horrible riptide of slag they had to deal with. Sherma would be there for him.

 

The transport took them up into Momus’ flat. He only unfolded once they arrived, but didn’t rush ahead of Sherma as he was usually went to do. He lingered by the doorway instead, waiting for Sherma to get into every room before he darted on ahead. He took them to his berth room and perched on the very edge, tired yet anxiously energetic at once.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning Sherma, “just come. Please, sweetspark.”

 

Sherma did, without argument. Momus needed every inch of him right now and he’d rather be smelted than disappoint his friend. 

And still the nickname woke the yearning. For him to be the only one Momus called that way. Sweetspark. Love. 

Sherma settled on the berth, fully, knowing he wouldn’t leave it any time soon. Momus wanted his company, and he would have it for as long as Sherma’s spark pulsed with life.

“I’m too easy to coax into berth, clearly.” he joked, voice very soft.

 

His hands slowly wandered up the sides of his frame. Momus kept his gaze squarely on Sherma’s chin, refusing to look up. “Would you? With me?” The question was so vague, he might have not asked it at all. But they both knew his meaning.

“I want to. Now.”

Horrible idea. Terrible idea. Urged on by upset and vulnerability and all the jagged things stabbed into his internals, but Momus didn’t care. It was intimacy. Closeness. It wasn’t about lust. His reasons seemed flimsy to him, even now, but Momus refused to look beyond whatever popped into his mouth.

 

Sherma couldn’t think of a worse situation for Momus to ask him that. There was nothing arousing about this situation or this evening. Momus would use it for comfort, and it would burn the light out of him in the morning, when he realized how he’d used Sherma. 

He had to be strong. He had to make the decision that Momus could not. Sherma couldn’t pull him closer yet, but he could lay his hands on Momus’ faceplate, cupping it gently.

“Not like this, my dear. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

He would, undoubtedly, join Momus in a berth. Perhaps it was time to at least tell him something vaguely like that.

“It’s not that I don’t want you. I do, Momus. Primus, I really do. But not like this. If you woke up and regretted being with me, I’d lose you.”

 

“Don’t make my decisions for me, Sherma. I’m not someone you have to protect, or nurture.” His fingers curled over Sherma’s wrists, drawing them down to his hips. “If you do, then what’s stopping you? Worry that I will reject it, later? Reject you? Why would I? When have I ever rejected you, sweetspark?”

He snaked his arms around his thick neck, pulling him closer and down. His pede hooked around Sherma’s. “Come on, sweetspark. You know you want to.  _ I  _ want you to.” A mess, a mess, but Momus was a mess so he gloried in the crash and burn.

 

Sherma had self-control, and it was iron at this point. Momus could be the charming, hot mess all he wanted, but Sherma would not ruin their relationship with any pity-frag or something of its ilk. He had too many meaningless interfaces in his lifetime. He very much disagreed with Momus about protecting him, as was evident by this hopeless venture he was pursuing now. 

“Momus,” he muttered, holding his friend close by his hips, but not giving in to make the touch more daring or enticed.

“I won’t do this. It’s not what....you want or need. It’s not what I- I feel...I...”

He didn’t want to confess here, like this, with Momus at a new low point in his life. It was wrong in every way he looked at it.

“I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?”

 

“But I want more. You know more, sweetspark, I’m never satisfied.” He was hurting Sherma. Momus could tell, with how distressed he was, but he’d dived into this too early and he was going to follow through. He pushed up a little further to catch Sherma in another kiss. It didn’t have the determined heat of the other one… this was desperation, choking fear, and need for basic intimacy, rolled into one.

“Do you want me to beg?” he asked, once the kiss ended. “Is that it? You want me to beg?”

 

The kiss didn’t catch him offguard, and Sherma didn’t outright reject Momus and his desperate advances, but it made him ache in an entirely different way. Momus was broken by what happened today, and now he was breaking Sherma open to crawl up inside of him and watch them both fade away.

He couldn’t give in to that, no matter how sad Momus’ optics, no matter how addictive his kisses.

“No, Momus, no. I don’t want you to beg. And I don’t want to frag you, knowing you and I will regret it deeply the moment it’s over. Please don’t make me do this. I don’t want to leave you alone tonight, but you have to stop. For both our sakes. Momus, I love you and I know this is not what you need, or what you really want.”

 

The rejection stung, because Momus knew he was right. He still held on stubbornly. “At least a kiss,” he persisted, “nothing more. Just kisses. That’s all. That’s okay.”

It wasn’t. He was being selfish, and cruel, and childish, but the time for self-introspection and maturity could come later. Momus wanted… something. Anything. To fill up the noise in his helm. “Just let me kiss you, sweetspark.”

 

Sherma tilted his helm down. Kissing was too intimate for friends, he knew it, but he also didn’t want Momus to beg anymore. Perhaps this would sate his need, give him just enough to skate by on what precarious little strength he had left. Sherma kissed him first though, quietly confident and patient and trying to be as reassuring as he could.

It was a far cry from the romantic fantasies he’d spun in his limited spare time.

 

_ Victory _ . Momus clawed Sherma down with him, until they both lay on the berth. Momus was at first gentle, following what Sherma did, but eventually, he grew rougher. Forceful. Soon enough, Sherma had suffered several bites and kisses that ran on longer and deeper than they should’ve.

Momus was tempted to reach for his panel, but that –  this –  was enough. He lay on top of Sherma, legs on either side, helm tucked under his chin, and finally stopped trying to pursue more.

Vent. Vent.

“Question. If things were different,” he said, “would you have done it?”

 

“If things had gone as we hoped today...I might have.” Because sharing in euphoria seemed a lot less dangerous than trying to console through interface. Sherma didn’t mind the marks, the bites, and some part of him greedily cataloged everything Momus did to him as something to be remembered fondly, but for now, he was content to have the mech close and calming down.

“But it doesn’t matter, Momus. We still have each other.”

 

“Thank you.” His optics offlined. Momus relaxed slowly, until he lay limp. “You’re a good mech, Sherma. I am glad you are my friend. I still say I wouldn’t have regretted it.”

He turned, so his back was pressed to Sherma’s chest. He slowly drifted off to recharge, snuggled in warmly. “Never… never leave me...”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear Momus.” Sherma held him tightly, watching him drift off into recharge. Good. The mech needed rest more than anything. Sherma wouldn’t do the same, not for a long time. He just lay there, in Momus’ berth, holding the mech that had become the center of his universe. If he could somehow move the powers that were, he would make sure Momus got everything he deserved. The power to make a difference, the power to make Cybertron good and a better place to live for everyone. 

Sherma shifted Momus once he was deeply recharging. With his helm on his chest and his frame resting in Sherma’s arm, Momus was comfortably draped and Sherma had an arm free to hold up a pad that had been resting on Momus’ berthside for months.

_ Towards Peace. _

He may as well see what this Megatron had to say on the state of Cybertron.

Hours later, the sunlight trickled through the thick glass of the berthroom window, the vents of the room clicking on softly to allow fresh air to circulate through the hab, and Sherma was still reading.

His optics were dull to reserve power, but his mind was awake, and bright, and very, very intrigued.

He’d read it over twice, three times now. It was...awe-inspiring. Insightful far beyond anything he’d ever seen anyone write even in more esteemed positions. It was humbling and truthful and in parts, very painful to know how far the corruption spread, how deeply embedded the functionist way was in every part of their culture.

How bright a spark had the wisdom to put it all to words.

Sherma lay awake, awed, fascinated and deeply ashamed. He was a senator. And here was the hand of a miner, the lowest of low, the poorest of the poor and most disregarded mecha on the planet, putting into words his failings. All of their failings. 

And providing an answer that was too radical to speak out loud, and yet resonated deeply within Sherma.

Uprising. Overturning the system. Tearing it down to create something new. Something equal. Something so terribly beautiful that it would allow no preferential treatment to anyone. Unity and peace, through the banner of tyranny.

It was extremely radical. Violent, definitely. What Megatron wrote off was impossible without resistance. Sherma could smell a mile off what the senate would say to this provocative piece that had been circulating among the labor caste. Terrorist propaganda. Rebellious nonsense, inciting mayhem and anarchy.

But there was a kernel of truth in the rough way that Megatron had expressed himself. A kernel of truth, and that stuck with Sherma.

 

It was nearing noon when Momus finally allowed himself to rouse. He woke in his typical manner –  twisting and writhing as he stretched and groaned himself into wakefulness. It took ten minutes and in that time, his brain module plodded after his frame to awaken.

When he was finally ready, Momus realized he probably should’ve tried to  _ pretend _ to continue recharging, if only to give himself the time to gather his wits. He stared at Sherma, optics onlining before he could think better of it, and the light reflected off green plating seemed to stab into his vision. He knew, he remembered, they hadn’t ‘faced. Barely even touched, besides some kisses.

He still felt guilty about it. Last night had been cruel to Sherma. The mech hadn’t deserved that, after being such a steadfast presence for him.

“Hey,” he croaked, vocalizer feeling scratchy, “I’m… I mean, I’m sorry. For what I did.  _ Said _ . You shouldn’t have had to deal with that.”

He was still tucked into Sherma’s side. Momus took that as the comfort it was, and nuzzled closer.

A moment later, a thought occurred to him and he began to laugh. “You know, Cairus called me a  _ promiscuous degenerate _ . Funny. I would have an easier time of things if I’d fragged my way to the top, but that’s the way it is, I suppose. People always want to believe the easier side of things than think I did anything under my own power.”

His tone lost the laughter midway. It became bitter, instead, but Momus didn’t dwell on the matter for too long.

Momus sighed, and rose off the berth. He sat with his knees spread side-to-side, hands in the space left between his legs, back bowed. He regarded Sherma quietly, scanning every detail of his face, searching.

“Have you recharged even a little, Sherma? You didn’t have to stay awake through my histrionics, sweetspark. I would’ve gotten over it, eventually. Last night was… messy. But that’s that, and you won’t have to see a repeat again.”

 

Sherma was a little tired, but his mind was so alive with new ideas that it didn’t matter. Their defeat yesterday was inevitable. They needed this, this new way of thinking, working, approaching the massive, monstrous machine that they were a part of.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could be here for you, Momus. You would have done the same for me.”

The cuddling, probably. The kissing? Sherma doubted it severely that he would ever push Momus into something like that, but the biggest harm was averted, and Momus was none the wiser about how deeply he’d cut into Sherma.

“I had a good read. Have you had a chance to finish this?” He waved the datapad.

 

“That?” He glanced at the title, though he didn’t really need to look to know what it was. “Yeah. I have. I was meaning to give it to you as a present, for your forging day. New ideas, new thoughts. Did you like it?”

He carefully prodded for Sherma’s reaction. Momus himself has heartily agreed with its contents, but he couldn’t gauge Sherma. He believed in more rights for mecha, but did he believe in the most radical idea contended by the manifesto –  that all mecha are created equal, forged or cold constructed, low or high? He was an intellectual. Their upbringing, such as it was, would always be starkly different. Sherma just didn’t  _ know _ .

Nonetheless, he was grateful the topic was now the datapad, not last night.

 

“It was...mind-opening. A little risky at times, but the overall message,” Sherma put the pad aside, happy to discuss it now that Momus was awake. The notion that Momus wanted to gift it to him as a present was sweet and it tucked itself into Sherma’s mind.

“Humbling. And truthful. I can’t believe that-” he stopped himself before finishing that sentence. The idea that a miner couldn’t possibly write this well was stupid. And it was caste-bound thinking to insist on, because right in front of him was the smartest mech he knew and he used to be just that. A miner.

“-things have gotten so bad that revolution sounds like a breath of fresh air.”

 

“I think things have been this bad for a long time,” Momus said darkly, “And we were just too scared to say anything about it. Megatron, the author, is a brave one to have written this and let it be read. I got it from a mech that went to our… victory party. All the low castes in the three uglies are reading this, and they’re liking it.”

He looked down at his hands, not quite unable to look at Sherma. “I… must say, that I agree with much of its substantive. Enough that I wish to support it.” He looked up, peering under the weight of his chevron. “You?”

 

“It’s dangerous thinking, when only tearing down the old makes room for the new. I don’t know about this, Momus,” Sherma had been around long enough to be cautious about radical ideas. He was no young forge, easily convinced and persuaded and raring to go.

“It’s dynamite. I agree with a lot of it. The abolition of the caste system most of all. But...this isn’t a platform we can run, my dear. We’d be out of the senate faster than you can say treason.”

 

“Who says we need to do this in the open?” And here they were. At the crux of the matter. This was treason against the Functionist council, and thus against the Senate. They were treading thin ice now.

“You read through all of it, right? You know what it said? _ A multi-skilled population is an empowered population. And if you reject your alt mode, what next? Would you reject your class? Would you reject your government?  _ How can I abide a government that has the likes of Cairus in it? Ratbat? Proteus? I  _ reject  _ it, Sherma, and I reject what our society has become. I see the truth now. I can flatter, and curry favor, and play our grand little ‘game’ all I want, but I’m never going to make a lasting change. So I’m withdrawing from the game. I want to change the world, not sit around pushing strings of power between the corrupt and amoral.”

 

“Momus...” Sherma watched him, carefully, searching for answers to questions he didn’t pose. This must have been on his mind for a while, if he was so ready to discuss throwing his lot in with an eloquent revolutionary. Sympathizing with this Megatron didn’t guarantee for anything either, other than making them a target. A scapegoat, even, if things went awry. The slightest slip would let the senate take them down without even trying as hard as Cairus did last night.

“Withdrawing from the game...what does that entail, exactly?”

Maybe Sherma was going to get back to mark sixty-one sooner than he hoped.

 

“I know you think this is going to be another hopeless crusade,” Momus said, “and that we’re going to run into the same blocks, over and over. I saw that, last night.”

He clenched his fists. “But I’m not going to give up. The game… playing the other senators, trying to appeal to their good will… it’s useless. There’s only power, in this world. If you don’t have power, you have nothing. If you have power, you can bring change. Our society  _ worships  _ power –  the power of the government, the power of religion, the power of control and denial of individual rights down to what we  _ think _ . I’m not settling for the ethereal power of the Senate, anymore, in the flightiness of favors and secrets and money. It’s a big wheel, with someone or another at the top. With enough power, however, you can break the wheel.”

Momus hunched. He was all jutting joints and careful wordplay, keeping a measured distance between himself and Sherma as blue optics assessed the other mech down to the minute expression. “I have hope, Sherma. It’ll be hard. I’ll fall down, more times than any other. But I have hope.”

 

Hope was a beautiful thing. So was Momus. Sherma already knew too much to leave the mech hanging, to leave him alone with his new plan to break the world down and rebuild it.

Sherma reached for him, holding his servo loosely.

“Like I said. I’m with you. Maybe with some temperance, this burgeoning revolution isn’t doomed. Is it really gaining traction?”

They had to be so, so careful. Senators were already out to get them. If they so much as showed that they knew about this so-called ‘Decepticon’ movement, they’d be hung out to dry faster than they could spit.

 

“It is. The miners, the gladiators, everyone in the low castes… they whisper about it. The great change, the great revolution. Equality at last.” Momus held Sherma’s hand, then held it up to his cheek. He pressed his helm into the broad, warm palm, smiling weakly.

“I haven’t listened as closely as I should have, lately. But if we go down, a little closer, we would hear them. The hope. Thank you, Sherma, for indulging me. Your opinion of this… must be very different to mine.”

 

“Probably. But it is only important that I can sympathize enough outside of my own person to understand what drove this miner to write these words,” Sherma knew he had lived a privileged life, but it never kept him from seeing the leagues and leagues of mecha beneath him who could only dream of an existence such as his.

“There’s also this particular, other miner that’s helped open my optics to the tremendous injustice done to all mecha below the scientist caste.”

 

“Would this mech be Momus of Helex, with awfully flashy colors, devastatingly handsome, and is terribly clever?” His smile quirked up a little higher. “I must say, he sounds like a real dynamite fellow. Quite like his friend. Sherma of Altihex, perhaps you’ve heard of him. Sneaky sense of humor, around your height. He’s a real special fellow to me, and brilliantly extraordinary.”

He squeezed Sherma’s hand a little tighter. “I keep saying thank you, but it never seems enough. It’s not like you gave me a present, or a favor. You’re doing something incredible. You’re capable of amazing things. And because I can’t just going saying all of that all the time, just keep this in mind.”

Momus lowered his hand, until it rested on his chassis. Under the glass was thin plating, under which his spark chamber lay. Through the layers, the pulse of his spark radiated. “Everytime I say thank you, Sherma, is a time where you are one of the most interesting and beloved people I’ve had the pleasure to meet in this lifetime.”

 

Sherma swallowed thickly. Momus didn’t know what he was doing to him, saying such things, implying so deep a connection Sherma had to reel himself back from blurting his confession at the mech.

“You don’t have to thank me for being your friend, Momus. I would walk into the Pit for you. And you would for me. I got that part of friendship down, you know.” Sherma wanted to hold him close and tell him of all the other parts of friendship he’d like to re-examine, but this was a tender moment and he wouldn’t trample it.

 

“I should show it. And  _ I  _ think there is a need, so therefore there is a need. I do owe you a wash and polish, don’t I? It’s been a year already –  can’t put it off like this. My reputation would be ruined.” Momus rolled off the berth and to his pedes. He slapped his palm down his thigh, beckoning Sherma. “Come on, mech, a good scrub is the best way to start the day. I’m done with moping around in the berth and asking for unreasonable things from you.”

 

“It’s good to see you back to form. You know we have to go to Pious’ reading tonight, right?” Sherma was more than happy to leave the moping in berth and spend their day getting back into the right frame of mind to deal with the ‘wheel’ that Momus wanted to help shatter. Sherma agreed with the decision that they’d sort of made; to work beyond the senate, instead of playing its tedious game.

“I was thinking I’ll bring along sixty-one and any time he tries to convince me that Primus needs more offerings from me, I’ll read him a clause.”

He followed Momus’ not so dirty frame into the washrack they had shared numerous times.

 

“That’s just evil of you. I approve.” Momus bossed Sherma around, directing him to small sitting stool and forcing him down so he could reach his helm. He grabbed his scrubber and began to attack his plating with revived gusto.

He moved methodically –  helm, shoulders, arms, back and chest, then got down on his knees to start working on his hips, panel, and legs. “Don’t move,” he warned, flicking Sherma’s thigh to drive the point in. “I remember that party. You carried me on your shoulder to my berth. So  _ savage  _ of you,” he winked up.

“I see your aft remains as shapely as ever. Good work.” He finished the legs. “Stay there, I need to clean as well. Don’t mess around and ruin my hard work.”

 

“There’s no way anyone will ever be in a position to see whether or not I am clean there, you know.” Sherma knew Momus always did everything to the extreme, but this was getting ridiculously close to making him uncomfortable. Not because Momus touching him bothered him, but Momus  _ not touching _ him made him hot and sticky and restless.

There was absolutely no need for Momus to move around on his knees, to have his helm positioned so close to Sherma’s panel, and the Altihexan senator prayed for strength and control in this moment of time.

 

“The unseen should be as quality as the seen,” Momus insisted, “I polish and wash there too, why would I skimp out on you?” It was so  _ cool  _ that he just had enough supplies to be able to reach every part of him and layer it all on. Like hell was Momus going to not do his best when he had regular access to so much solvent and polish.

He scrubbed himself down much the same way he did Sherma –  quick, efficient, systemic. When he finally kicked the solvent shut, they were both dripping wet in the steaming washracks. “Hmmmm,” Momus grinned in the warmth, his plating loosening to let in the heat, “Pits, I love how nice it gets  _ right  _ after. All warm and tingly.”

He grabbed his polish, wax, and polishing pad. “Righty, time to buff and polish until we’re sleek and shiny. Don’t move.”

 

Sherma wanted to argue that he didn’t need to be polished but they were going to Pious’ reading, where everyone would be primped and proper and look like the shining, rotten stars of Cybertron’s political sky they were.

Maybe there was some dark kind of hopeless humor in how they approached the senate now. It was useless to try things their way, but that didn’t mean Sherma and Momus couldn’t enjoy what they could of being there. The buffets, the parties, the snide conversations...

“It may be the lack of recharge speaking, but I think we could make headway with the ‘humiliate Cairus’ campaign tonight.”

 

“You read my mind, sweetspark,” Momus paused in his polishing of Sherma’s thighs to grin up at him, “Tell me you’ve got something wonderfully heinous stored in that brain module of yours.” He left polished plating as he worked down, uncaring of his subservient position, kneeling with Sherma’s pedes on his lap.

“Go on. Tell me. There’re rewards if it’s absolutely horrible.”

 

“Well. There’s no way to win a smear campaign against him, since he has endless amounts of shanix and the entire planet knows it. So there’s no room to maneuver in public scandals or proof of corruption. However...a social event? A high society, cultural occasion? You can’t buy your way out of public humiliation, no matter what. But of course,” Sherma relieved some pressure by venting steam, “there’s no way Cairus goes and makes a fool of himself, right? Right. However, he has children. Foolish, spoiled children. It would be an unbearable shame if one of them, I don’t know, was caught doing something unmentionable. Or someone unmentionable.”

Sherma liked dipping into this filthy new terrain. With no ground left to lose on the floor, they may as well make things personal. And nasty.

 

“Ooh, he  _ merged  _ with someone?  _ Willingly _ ? And something came  _ out  _ of that? How awful for society. Still, good idea, I absolutely approve of it.” Leaning closer, he smacked a kiss on Sherma’s abdomen. “It still counts even if it’s not on the mouth, right?”

Altihexans. Such strange customs. “Who’s the unmentionable? Do we have anyone, or are we going to play bait?”

 

He really needed to correct Momus’ impression of Altihexan customs, sometime soon. The kissing last night had already given Sherma more than enough guilt, but Momus just carried it on, in the bright light of day.

“We should plant some bait. His creations are spoiled brats, both of them. Show them something pretty and they want it, no matter how cheap or expensive. I’m thinking we pick someone up...maybe in Rodion. They have plenty of mecha for hire there. We’ll pay them much better, of course, have them come back here maybe, wash off the stink of arrogant Praxian. Does that sound like fair payment to you, or still too upper caste snobbish?”

 

“I’m not going to ask just  _ how  _ you know what kind of mecha for hire there are in Rodion,” Momus teased, “But, Sherma. Think. You are saying you want us to hire a prostitute, drag em here and clean em off, then flaunt them in front of Cairus’ brood until one of them sticks their spike in. The question is, how are  _ we  _ going to justify bringing in a honey to a high-scale event?”

Momus shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s better kept between us. Maybe use me. Primp me up, I act like I’m too good, and bam. Prissy high caste with delusions of ‘roughing it’ with the ‘fake’ senator.” 

 

“No.”

Sherma wanted to growl at the mere thought of it, grasping Momus by the shoulders to hold him steady whilst Sherma stared him down.

“That would humiliate you as well, and Cairus could blame your former caste for your habits. That won’t do at all, Momus.”

_ Not to mention, the thought of you with someone else makes me nauseous. _

Sherma’s fingers tapped a little jig on Momus’ shoulders.

“We can’t bring in shareware as companions. I’m thinking I’d call in a favour with Steelchime, who is definitely invited and owes me after losing a drinking bet. I guess I can forego the concert tickets and have him bring in our Rodian with his entourage.”

 

Momus hummed in agreement. “That sounds like a good plan, actually. You’re scaring me here, Sherma, I’m seeing all flavors of deviousness out of you. I will clearly have to watch what I do, for fear of turning this streak on myself.”

He winked. “I’m done polishing you. Give me time to get myself jiffied, then we can find our Rodion friend to go mechfishing. I hope they’re not prettier than me, we wouldn’t want  _ your  _ attention to stray now, do we?”

Momus laughed at his own joke as he began to polish. “I’m actually curious now. How do you know about Rodion shareware?”

 

Sherma felt like he’d dodged a bullet, as soon as Momus offered another avenue for their conversation. There was absolutely nothing to laugh about for him in that joke, in fact, it had stuttered his engine just to hear Momus brush by the topic, even casually and in jest.

Rodion shareware was a much safer thing to discuss by a landslide.

“I was young once, you know, Momus? I travelled. I saw things. I bought shareware in every city i visited...sampling, they call it.”

“How luxurious of you. I would like to try that, sometime. Maybe you can show me the ropes and take me to the best shareware houses in all the cities. It can be a bonding experience for us to wade through orgies knee-deep.” He shifted his weight, balancing on one pede to start scrubbing his ankle.

“So. Question. Out of curiosity, mind. Why don’t you have a conjunx?”                               

 

“Never been that in love, never found the right mech for the job,” Sherma replied, quiet now. He looked down at Momus, wishing that the other could just read his mind and spark and that somehow, everything would continue to be alright between them. But Sherma knew better than to hope for impossibilities. Momus deserved not to be burdened with his foolish emotions.

“And...I never wanted to put that strain on someone. If your conjunx is a senator, there’s a certain way you have to behave. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, to watch their every step and word.”

 

“Then bond somewhere higher? Like…” Momus wracked his mind for possibilities, “some noble, or another senator. Like Shockwave, he’s a decent fellow.” He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll meet the right one someday, sweetspark. Some fantastic person who can keep track of mark sixty-one and all the ones afterwards.”

He pointed at Sherma, teasingly admonishing. “Of course, you must promise to not forget me once you go gaga for some pretty lil thing. Conjunx or not, I don’t share nicely.”

He barked a laugh, astounded by his cleverness. 

 

Sherma couldn’t bring himself to laugh, so he only managed a painful grimace of a grin. Momus had no idea that he would never, ever have to share. Sherma was all his, in ways he didn’t understand.

“You know, I don’t think you have to worry about that at all, Momus. I’m not looking to get bonded. I have you. Why would I need anyone else?”

That was perhaps a little too close to the truth. He had to steer this conversation elsewhere.

 

“Well, I’m not going to be your conjunx now, am I? I’m not exactly a suitable replacement for the love of your life.” Momus switched to his other ankle. “You know, I almost had a conjunx myself. Almost. His designation was Gauge, and while it wasn’t like… the whole romantic holovid romance story, I thought  _ this is the best I’m gonna get, _ so go for it, you know?”

Momus shrugged. “He died in a cave-in and I moved on. Quality miner’s love life, right there.”

 

It was like burying a thousand tiny blades under his chestplate. It hurt, a sharp ache that spiralled throughout his spark and dulled in his circuits. Sherma grit his dentae. Not only was Momus tragically casual about losing his lover, he was also painfully unaware that he very well fit all of Sherma’s criteria.

_ I’m pretty sure you are the love of my life. _

“You settled? I guess that’s very...pragmatic of you. I’m sorry you lost him, Momus.” And he was, because he wished genuine happiness upon his friend. Just that a selfish, greedy part of him wished he could bring Momus that. But Sherma wasn’t a good match, was he? Momus was a striking personality, stubborn, proud, ambitious. A wonderful mech who deserved someone as captivating and quick-witted to match his brilliance.

 

“Pragmatic is how you live. It’s okay, Sherma. He was more my friend than anything else, and the loss was expected. Mecha don’t live long down there.”

Momus snorted. “Ugh. Why be depressed over our love lives? We’re too busy to be dating, or ‘facing around anyway. Momus and Sherma, there ain’t no space for a third honey to hang around. I’m done here, so come on. Let’s get out, grab some fuel, and then prep for Pious’ holy blasphemy. You’re holding the texts that have weird stains on them.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Senator. Such a pleasure to see you here.” 

The genuine happiness in Crosscut’s voice was a rarity among the ranks of the Senate. Of course he was here. They were all invited to listen to Pious ramble on from his ancient texts and to then gratuitously ignore the religious nature of the event.

It was about showing up, not whether or not you cared for the cause. The same game, just extended to exchanging pleasantries with hidden blades.

“Senator Crosscut. I enjoyed your play. I wish you’d find the time to write more contemporary pieces, however.”

Sherma allowed himself to be drawn into meaningless conversation with Crosscut for now. The plan to humiliate Cairus was well under way, and Steelchime had come through with their uninvited guest. Already, Cairus’ bratty sons were looking bored and lingering around the buffet, waiting for more interesting prey to speak to that wasn’t of senatorial ranking.

 

Momus, normally, would’ve taken this as an opportunity to dive into the crowd and start playing them again. This time, however, he hung back. He didn’t make it nearly as obvious enough to hurt his reputation, but his daring intrusions into quiet conversation were dimmer and he hung around Sherma more. Not engaging him in conversation, necessarily, but brushing up near when Cairus wandered too close for his ease of mind. Sherma was… comforting.

It was during one of these brief lulls that he circled Sherma before settling in with him in a booth. “Is it the white one?” he asked, scanning the crowd, “with the finials, I mean, your Rodion sweetspark.”

 

“Mhm,” Sherma examined the drink he’d gotten for himself. This wouldn’t even tickle his intake. He really was spoiled with his Molten, and other high-grade just felt like weak excuses in comparison. Still. What more could he expect of Pious and his sensitive glossa?

“Try not to stare at him. Mech’s nervous...I don’t envy him. I told him he didn’t have to go further than implication, the press drone is already been...informed. But Cairus’ brats look slimey. And hungry.”

Sherma nudged Momus with a pede.

“What do you think of Crosscut, dear?”

 

“I don’t want him to be hurt. We pay for his medical care, if they injure him,” Momus said firmly. “We’re not going to use him and leave him.”

He jumped at the small nudge. “Crosscut? Well… not too bad, considering, but he’s rather irritating. His plays are okay, I suppose, but he’s never struck me as the type who’s eager to bring change. Likes to stay on the winning side, I mean. Not the worst crime, all things considered, but he’s not you, either.”

He took a sip of his high grade and hiced delicately. “Mm. Need to hold back, before overcharge gets me. Why ask about Crossy?”

 

“Yes, that would be wise,” Sherma smiled at him, very aware of the last time Momus got himself overcharged. That road was paved with regret and potential mistakes.

“Hm? Oh...he’s invited me to see his play. I’m not sure what his angle is. I didn’t think he had much of a stance, I mean, he voted to abstain from the overhaul.”

 

“What use is a good mech if he does nothing to evil?” Momus swung his pede up, so it rested on Sherma’s. “Silence isn’t approval, but it sure as the Pits isn’t objection.”

He glanced over to the senator that fancied himself a playwright. “Did he invite  _ me _ ?” he asked, tone pointed. His fall from grace was hardly a secret, but Momus’ opinion of the mech stood in the balance. Sherma was relatively insulated thanks to his quiet demeanor, while Momus’ fall had been spectacular. If he chose the safer option, well.

Momus wouldn’t be pleased. “Will you go?”

 

“I don’t know. No, he didn’t extend the invitation out to you. Or anyone else. He said he liked my reform, but he couldn’t agree with the overhaul. I almost think he really doesn’t understand the dire situation of the mining cast. That one’s helm is lost in the clouds.”

Sherma nudged Momus’ pede back, a smaller smile on his face for it. Momus and his odd habits of keeping casual contact with him at nearly all times...it was its own brand of adorable.

“I might go. Do you think I should? I don’t think he invited any other senators.”

 

“An idiot, then,” Momus judged mercilessly. He sniffed and pushed his leg up higher, trying to see when Sherma’s amusement would become chagrin. “I don’t know, sweetspark, I’ve never paid much attention to Crosscut and his whimsies. Go, if you think it would be useful or if you want to. You’ll be free of me for an evening, at least. Take a honey out, or some such. I’ll entertain myself just fine.”

“Do you think Crosscut has a purpose? If so, what?”

 

“Aren’t you the one who usually sniffs out intentions?” Sherma continued in good humor, letting Momus carry on. Even if that pede ended up in his lap, he wouldn’t shove him away.

“Crosscut’s got no ambitions. You know he’s never submitted anything for a vote? I don’t know what he’s thinking....maybe he’s looking for friends in low-hanging range?”

 

“You’re not low-hanging,” Momus admonished him, “Don’t call yourself that.”

Below the table, he aimed a soft kick at Sherma’s knee. “I won’t have it, hear me? Go to the shindig, see what Crosscut’s doing, and tell me if he’s just being Crosscut or useful for once. If he’s being Crosscut, you’ve probably wasted time you could’ve been spending with me.”

Momus gave Sherma an imperious wave. “Crosscut couldn’t compare to me, even at the height of  _ his  _ power and the nadir of mine.”

“There’s no need to be jealous, dear,” Sherma shook his helm, kicking Momus gently in the pede. His friend was being childish and adorable and he wished they were enjoying drinks in Translucentica and not at Pious’ garden party. 

“We’ll see. I’ll go, see what he’s all about. It’s not like I don’t like theater. Do you think you can handle one night without me though, Momus?”

 

“I see you trying to turn the tables,” Momus accused. “I won’t answer anything until you say “I’m not low-hanging”. Say it. Go on.” They exchanged gentle kicks under the table, playing around more than anything, and scuffing each other’s ankles in the process. 

 

“I’m- since when are your pedes so sharp?” he chuckled, wondering if anyone could be watching their immature exchange, kicking each other under the table like children.

“Fine. Primus. I’m not low-hanging fruit. I’m average fruit.”

 

“No. Try again. Say “I’m the best damn fruit on the tree and in the whole fragging orchard”.” Momus refused to back down, getting more stubborn the more Sherma persisted in putting himself down. “Don’t insult yourself like that, sweetspark. I  _ know  _ I have good taste –  I wouldn’t have gone for low-hanging or average. Try again.”

 

“Overconfidence is an ugly trait, Momus, I don’t intend to make it one of mine. Really. Middle ground. That’s perfectly adequate. I’m happy being average.” Well, he was a little smarter than the average mech, else he’d never have obtained his position, but modesty was ingrained into Sherma just like haughty pride was part of mecha like Cairus.

 

“I don’t think you’re average at all.” Momus rolled his optics at Sherma’s stubborn refusal to comply. “I just don’t see why you have so much trouble accepting that.”

He ceased kicking Sherma. Instead, his pede wiggled up to his lap and snuggled in between his thighs. “Maybe,” he said shrewdly, “Crosscut is trying  _ woo _ you.”

 

Sherma belted out a laugh at that. He couldn’t help himself, that was utterly ridiculous, and also Momus’ pede was brushing his inner thighs and that area was  _ sensitive, _ damn it.

Quickly, and with some semblance of embarrassment, Sherma tried to recover his dignity. He put a hand on Momus’ pede, stilling it where it was.

“That would be hilarious. But I have a feeling you’re entirely wrong, and more focused on tickling me than conversing about Crosscut.”

 

“I can multitask,” Momus said, and wiggled his pede to prove his point. “I mean –  think about it. He only invited  _ you _ .  _ Only  _ you. You two don’t have any real history, no issues. Clearly, he’s trying to grease his pole. Moisten the slit. Ride the submarine. Diddle your fiddle.”

With each euphemism, he wiggled his pede higher, sliding down on his seat as he did so. “Would you do it, if he is?”

 

“Momus!” Sherma felt both embarrassed and amused and the wiggling pede didn’t help. He didn’t want to burst into a full fit of giggles induced by the horrible tickling sensation on his protoform, but Momus wasn’t making it easy for him to keep his composure.

“I don’t...no, I wouldn’t. Crosscut is not my type. And please, for the love of Molten, stop talking about _ riding the submarine _ .”

 

“Crosscut wants to go diving in  _ your  _ deep ocean blue.” Momus cackled as he withdrew the tickling, though his pede still rested snugly between his friend’s thighs. “You’re warm. My pedes are cold. Warm them up with your shapely body.”

He drank more high grade, relaxing far more messing around with Sherma than anything else. “Alright, then more questions, since they always give me more things to know about you. What  _ is  _ your type? Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

 

Sherma let the pede be, as long as the tickling motion subsided. Did it look awkward under the table? Absolutely. It was a good thing they were in a relatively secluded spot. Sherma rubbed Momus’ pede, which didn’t feel cold at all. 

“I like someone more confident. Maybe a little smaller than me, but nothing too delicate. Someone who can hold their high-grade and fit against my frame at night.” 

Why was he telling this to the mech he wanted? Sherma didn’t know. Best not to overthink it.

 

“You had me until the highgrade. I can’t hold mine like you, I think that’s a talent reserved for the some one percent out there.” Momus shrugged and bolted down another shot. “Alright. My type is the type you always pick as your partner in the mines.”

He held up a hand and ticked off the qualities, one by one. “Reliable. Intelligent. Calm. Done. You don’t want some flighty little fool who’ll lose his mind at the first sign of trouble. All the other stuff, like looks or alt or whatever? It happens on its own. I don’t care much.”

Momus tilted his helm. “Hold on. Crosscut’s pretty confident, even if he’s a little slow. Your height, maybe thinner. He drinks. Sounds like your type, unless I’m missing a piece?”

 

“He’s got no opinions. He’s just...you know, a dreamer. Doesn’t seem to understand that the real world is a slagfest.” Sherma drank, though the high-grade here barely stung at all. What he wouldn’t give to be on an Altihexan beach, alone with some Molten and Momus and see where that lead them...

“Not a lot going on in that helm outside of fancy plays. I need someone who has optics, and sees Cybertron for how it is.”

 

“That does make sense. Well, now that I’m convinced he’s wooing you and you’re clearly uninterested, I’m just going to sit back and watch it implode.” Momus stared up at the ceiling.

“Hey. I’m kind of done being here. What’s going on with your Rodion honey? Do we need to stay and watch over that, or do you think we could nick all the high grade and go to my flat and have our private party?”

 

“As much as I’d like that, we better stay at least until it goes down,” Sherma looked to the stage, or rather, to the side of it, and the white mech he’d hired was gone. So were Cairus’ lurking sons near the buffet.

“Oh. Speaking of.” 

Sherma brought up a holo-screen, just a small one he carried in his arm, and sure enough, there were the two fancy Praxian frames, being rather uncouth with the white mech trapped between them.

“They do move fast, don’t they? They don’t get that from Cairus.”

 

Momus leaned in close to watch the events unfold. He saw the upbringing in the two mecha –  spoiled, arrogant, powerful –  exactly the sort of progeny someone like Cairus would produce. He sneered when they began to feel the white mech up, pushing him into a corner.

“Don’t talk about him, he turns my tanks,” Momus muttered darkly. “Can your media drone hurry up? I don’t like watching this.” It would make better –  or worse, in this case –  if the twins were caught doing something even worse than simply groping the mech. But that wasn’t a line Momus wanted to cross.

“Once we’re done here, we leave as soon as possible. I want to drink.”

 

It was a bigger blowout than Sherma anticipated. Cairus had been beside himself, and wasn’t that just a beautiful picture? The humiliated senator, hustling his sons into a transport, still smeared with flaky white paint and surrounded by media mech, hurling questions after the family. Disgrace was a word that suited Cairus well, in Sherma’s opinion.

The two of them hadn’t stuck around for long either, the garden party thoroughly ruined and Pious excusing himself to deal with his ‘emotional disturbance’. Sherma rather doubted the groping of a Rodion shareware really disturbed the senator, but anything to save face, right?

Said Rodion shareware was also safely inside of Momus’ tower by now. The investigation through enforcers had been entirely skipped thanks to Cairus’ influence, which mean the white mech, designation ‘Drift’, had been free to go. He arrived at Translucentica in a different transport though, to avoid any conclusions that may have been made if he’d gotten into one with Sherma and Momus.

Which brought them here, to a place that had become Sherma’s home as much as it was Momus’. 

 

“Fuelled? Repaired?” The white mech mutely nodded in response to Momus’ low-key fretting. He accepted the credit-loaded card, which’d been topped with a little extra because Momus was feeling apologetic for subjecting him to the attention of Cairus’ spawns.

“I took so much energon during the whole mess,” he said, smugly confident now that the white mech had been taken care of and he and Sherma could settle in without dealing with politics for a little bit longer. “See this bottle, sweetspark?” 

He hefted it up, giving it a gentle shake. “Triple-distilled Ventrillian platinum. This is  _ fancy _ . And very  _ strong _ . Maybe good enough to match your hellbrew.”

Momus trotted off into the sitting room to bring up the holoscreen. There already was a movie he wanted to watch, and the glasses for their night-long drinking binge were prepped. All that he was missing was a cuddle buddy to shove alcohol into.

“Come on. Let’s get horrifically drunk together.”


	10. Chapter 10

“If you throw up on me this time I will be gone. Absolutely.” Sherma followed him into the room, finding space to make himself comfortable. He had no doubt that the energon would be good, Pious spared no expenses to try and impress his guests. That didn’t detract from the disaster his party had turned into, however.

“You stole energon? I have some stereotype bingos to fill out, my dear.”

Sherma groaned as he sprawled out. He’d sit up for the movie, propping into pillows. Some comforts of being part of the highest order of mecha were completely necessary to his life. 

 

“Bite my pantry full of energon,” Momus said good-naturedly. He stretched down over Sherma, loose and snuggly. His glass in one hand, straw in his mouth, and remote in the other, Momus could finally relax properly.

“Don’t move,” he said, “I’m comfortable now.” He took one hard swig of the Ventrillian and coughed in delight. “This kicks like a cybermule. I think my dentae are going to fall off.  _ Pits _ .”

“Let me be the judge of hard liquor, Momus. You’re too sensitive for it.” Sherma took the glass out of Momus’ grasp, straw and all, and sucked down a big gulp.

He didn’t cough, but his vents flared all of a sudden.

“Alright. That has a little bite. Not bad, for a new forge maybe.”

One arm lodged itself around Momus. This was fine, wasn’t it? They did this all the time and it wasn’t strange to cuddle a friend.

 

“Ooh, tough guy.” Momus dug a finger into Sherma’s protoform and wiggled it, “But I  _ know  _ you’re weak to this!”

He snagged his drink back before Sherma could spill it, and swigged down another shot. His frame was already nice and tingly in response to the high grade, and as a result, Momus was a lot more playful. Then he got to tickling Sherma, finding all the exposed protoform on his frame and running his wriggling digits all over them.

 

Momus was a devil for having digits so flexible. Sherma didn’t have to keep himself together here, and he burst out laughing. It was unbearable torture, having all that motion dance over his protoform. Maybe he needed to get armored up in order to be safe from tickle attacks.

“Mo-Momus, that’s not-Stop!”

He was already floundering in the pillows, frame tingling.

 

Momus clambered atop Sherma, leaning away from his frantic writhing while he secured the mech with both legs on either side of him. He attacked his plating and protoform more thoroughly, digging and searching for the spots he hadn’t reached.

“You look better when you’re laughing,” he declared, “So I’m going to make you laugh until your main fuel pump falls out.”

 

“I’m going to die if you keep going,” Sherma snorted, trying to adjust his sensitivity manually even through the stimulation. His protoform was too exposed for it to make much difference, but he had to try. Tears formed in his optics, he couldn’t take much more.

“Please, why are you torturing me, Momus?!”

 

He snatched up Sherma’s wrists and pressed them up, above his helm. Leaning down, Momus grinned wickedly.

“I guess,” he said, with the full weighted pause of someone who knew exactly what he was saying, “this means I  _ rode the submarine _ .”

In an instant, his composure broke and let go of Sherma to collapse on his chest, cackling. “I guess this means we know who’s winning in a physical fight.  _ Me _ . Hah!”

 

Sherma’s spark was swirling like mad. Momus had no idea what he was doing with his playful demeanour, the smile on his face, the wonderful sound of his laughter in Sherma’s audials. Yearning surged through him viciously, searing at his self-control. It was out of the question, his desire to kiss Momus and confess to him right now. Again. This wasn’t the time. Even if he did ache to watch the surprise blossom in Momus’ face. 

“That wasn’t a fair fight,” he muttered, trying to subtly turn off his fans and just let the warmth pump out through his vents.

 

“Aw, don’t be sore,” Momus crooned, mistaking Sherma’s awkwardness for sullenness. He curled in closer, nuzzling Sherma’s neck and kissing the cables there. “It was only a joke, Sherma, I promise not to do it again if it bothers you.”

He leaned over and grabbed the whole bottle of Ventrillian. “Here,” he offered, “Drink up before I go and finish it. Then you’ll be sober and I’ll be purging my tanks again. Go on, sweetspark, you know I won’t mess with the bottle none.” 

His audials, formerly pressed down and back, tilted up and wiggled in the air, as he eagerly waited.

 

Sherma grabbed for the bottle, if only to take his mind off of Momus and his adorable audials. He gulped down the energon, making no pause until the bottle was entirely drained. The ensuing burn in his tanks was exactly right to keep him distracted from the painful pressure on his array panels.

Primus. Momus needed to get off of his heating frame. Sherma licked at the bottle, catching the last few drops with his glossa.

“I guess it’ll do in a pinch. I don’t want to know how many shanix I just shotgunned.”

 

“So, so many. I think you swallowed down the lifetime wages of a million low caste mecha.” He dropped the empty bottle uncaringly, and grabbed the next one. Not a Ventrillian, unfortunately, but still strong enough to knock Momus off his pedes –  and thus mildly inconvenience Sherma.

“You missed a spot,” Momus pointed out as he worked on opening the bottle. Rather than wipe it up, he leaned and licked the smear of highgrade on the corner of Sherma’s mouth. “Got it.”

And got the bottle, too. He tossed the cap away uncaringly, and leaned back to take a big swig. Momus never learned to appreciate good highgrade, unfortunately. “Movie’s on. Each time there’s an explosion on screen, take a shot. I’ll swig.”

 

“You have to watch the movie to play drinking games, Momus.” Sherma leaned on his elbows, peering past Momus’ adorable face to the holo-screen. Some kind of explosive action was happening, alongside with hungry revving and screeching tires.

His spark wouldn’t calm. Momus was playing too dangerous a game with him for Sherma to be completely drunk. He’d have to pace himself, even if he naturally outlasted Momus easily. One of them needed to keep a level helm in this situation.

 

“Or I can just listen for the sound of things exploding and drink.” He giggled in Sherma’s audial, before giving it a flirtatious nip.

“Say, Sherma. Why don’t we play our lil question game as well? That way I won’t get bored and start touching you again. That’s good, right?”

“I’ll ask the first one. Do you  _ really  _ need to go to Crosscut’s dumb play?”

 

The plan to get Momus to move off of him didn’t work. Sherma shifted hopelessly under the weight of him, hoping and praying to Primus that Momus would be too drunk to notice that the senator underneath him wasn’t warm thanks to energon.

And the way he kept touching him. Nipping at him, licking, kissing...it was a wonderful kind of torture, but torture all the same. Sherma sighed at the question regarding Crosscut. Was that a childish plea for him not to pay attention to anyone else or was it jealousy? He hoped for the latter.

“It would be kind of rude of me not to. I said I liked the story, and I do. About a medic and a soldier. You know how he likes to portray romance without limitations and class.”

And Sherma was a big sucker for that kind of stuff.

 

“Okay. You have your reasons. I understand that. But I also have my reasons for not wanting you to go.”

He tapped his digits down his chassis, humming. “I wasn’t joking when I told you what I think Crosscut wants from you. And if I’m honest, I… don’t like it. I apologize if it is petty of me, as it likely is.”

There was a small pause. Momus reset his vocalizer. “I don’t share well, sweetspark. I want to be the only one riding the submarine.”

He shrugged, trying to pass off what he said as casual. “If your spark’s real set on it, love, I won’t stop you. But I would prefer if you didn’t.”

 

Momus had to know. There was no way he would say such things if he didn’t, right? Sherma looked at him, tried to see past the faceplate he adored into the core of the mech, but he didn’t find any answers.

“I didn’t know it stuck in your mind so much.”

It bothered Momus. The thought of someone trying to woo Sherma (as unlikely as he considered that part). Was that good?

“Alright. I won’t go. It’s not like I’m trying to gain any favours from him.”

And besides, a romantic play would only hike up the rate at which he fantasized about his best and only friend and  _ that  _ wasn’t a good development either.

 

“Mm, thanks.” It was the alcohol haze, Momus knew it, but the word  _ thanks  _ connected to  _ appreciation  _ and Sherma was  _ right there  _ and it’d been a long, long time since Momus got to do any fooling around, anyway.

Sherma tasted like Ventrillian. Momus didn’t move urgently –  he pulled out the kiss with lazy indulgence, occasionally nipping him when the mood struck. Had he been in a clearer state of mind, Momus wouldn’t have continued past a quick press of their lips together, at the most.

Because he wasn’t in a clear state of mind and because Sherma had just agreed to refuse a date just because  _ Momus asked _ , the kiss was far from innocent or quick. 

 

Bad. This was so bad. Momus was kissing him leisurely and Sherma hadn’t shoved him off yet. Instead, he allowed himself this tiny glimpse into what could be, kissing his best friend with poorly shown restraint.

Sherma’s arm came up to let him hold Momus, press him to his frame. There was nothing platonic about this, nothing innocent and draped in nothing more than close friendship.

 

Wasn’t Sherma’s arm on his back such a  _ nice  _ weight?

Momus purred encouragement as his glossa got involved, pushing past Sherma’s slack lips and into his mouth. He could feel his internal temperatures tick up little by little, spurred on by what could be quite possibly the first interface-related activity he’s had in the last century.  _ Primus _ , he’d been busy.

His panels didn’t pop, not  _ yet _ anyway, but it was a close thing. The more this went on, the more Momus was getting interested in the idea of it. He could trust Sherma. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing born out of emotional fallouts. A casual frag would be  _ fantastic  _ right now.

His array was pinging eager agreement. Slowly, unmistakeably, Momus’ hips began to rock, scraping the warming metal of his panel over the flat ridges of Sherma’s abdomen. He didn’t want to draw away to talk, so hopefully this was hint enough at the direction Momus wanted to take this.

 

So much for drinking and a movie. Sherma knew he should stop. Momus needed to get off of him, and- Primus, was that his glossa? Sherma grew weaker by the second and he moved his own to meet the eager intruder. 

Grinding. Momus was grinding on him. Sherma’s chassis grew warm, expectant pings from his panel drowning out what should be his motivation to stop. But it felt good, so good, with Momus, whom he trusted, and loved, and wanted so much. His fingers stroked over the wheels at his friend’s back,  fingers finding holds and territory to explore.

A drunk frag. Would that be what it boiled down to? Sherma couldn’t find the stop button on this derailing situation.

 

Sherma was responding, that much was clear. His glossa was moving, as were his hands, but his panels were still clamped shut, so Momus did what he did best. He took the initiative.

His panels snapped back during a quiet moment in the holovid, so the soft sound was audible between them. Momus pressed back down, finding the heat of  Sherma’s plating on his bare valve pleasant to grind against as he finally, slowly,  _ reluctantly _ pulled away from Sherma’s mouth long enough to talk.

“‘S a yes, right?”

_ Say yes, Pits below. _

...oh, that was aloud. He was saying a lot of things aloud, actually. Most of it centered on Sherma’s spike and how it should’ve been in Momus since, like, yesterday.

 

“I...we...” Sherma was frantic for an excuse. But his panel ached, his spark swirled and he wanted Momus so much. No...just say no, get this awkward situation to stop, just-

A soft click of the panel release. Too late. Sherma was going into his grave, right now and here, completely helpless under Momus and his enticing frame.

“Shouldn’t...” he whispered, reaching for Momus again, to bring them back into a kiss, so he could forget that this was one of his worst ideas ever.

 

“ _ Finally _ ,” Momus hissed into Sherma’s kiss. His hand darted between them, finding his spike. It felt like a good fit –  suitably thick, long enough, no crazy mods. He wanted to be ambitious and assume he could fit it in with no help but…

“Frame’s new,” he said. The seal was gone, after he personally dug it out, but the valve was hardly tested beyond his own venturing digits. “Your hand. Fingers. Come  _ on _ .”

He groped around blindly at their side, searching. It still wasn’t fast enough for his appetite, and Momus ground down again with a frustrated hiss that threatened to become a whine. “Come on, sweetspark, don’t leave me hangin’ now. I need  _ somethin’  _ in me.”

 

“You’re so damn impatient,” Sherma growled, taking a fierce hold on Momus. If they were going to do this, they would do it right, and Momus would wait until Sherma decided he was ready, or go to berth empty and disappointed. It wasn’t difficult to flip them around, to wedge Momus beneath his slightly wider frame and stare down at him with unprecedented hunger in his optics.

He trailed a hand down until he found Momus’ valve, warm, inviting, entirely too golden to be considered a modest, subtle part of his frame. Just two fingers, teasing around the edge, caressing the anterior node that beckoned for him.

 

He let out a noise that was a cross between a grunt and a squeak when their positions were abruptly changed, with Momus staring up at Sherma, one leg over the back of the couch and the other trailing to the floor. He was about demand  _ more  _ yet again when Sherma followed through.

He was  _ technically  _ doing what Momus wanted. But this teasing nonsense really had to stop. He kicked uselessly, calipers cycling in and out periodically as they remained frustratingly empty. “And  _ you’re  _ slow,” he snapped, jerking his hips up to get even a  _ little  _ more out of Sherma. “I want you to frag me, and I don’t want to  _ wait _ .”

 

“Like I said. Damn impatient,” Sherma let his fingers sink in, cooling fans clicking into action very loudly. His frame seemed as eager as Momus, and just as inclined not to wait a moment longer, but he still wanted to savour this moment. He’d regret it plenty in the morning.

To quell any more complaining, he leaned down to claim Momus’ mouth in another kiss, this time nipping at his lips and thrusting his glossa forward.

His fingers were already drenched, and he’d only just begun to feel the inside of his beloved friend. Momus could never appreciate a good duration of waiting, in anything.

 

Anything Momus might’ve said was overtaken by his moan. It welled up from his intake and spilled over his lips in a tumble of breathy sighs and softer  _ ah _ ’s when Sherma found a node cluster, or touched his anterior node. His sounds were soon swallowed by Sherma once more and he kissed and moaned into Sherma’s mouth at varying interludes. The blue light of his optics flickered and vents flared open, swallowing in gusts of cool air.

The two fingers provided a good stretch. Momus was so wet there was no friction as they slid inside, besides the tightness of his walls. He pushed himself onto his heels to get enough leverage to rock on them, thrusting them in and out in a motion that made his plating rattle. As Sherma’s digits slipped inside, his valve wetly swallowing them up, there came a variety of sounds that drowned out the movie.

“Another,” Momus gasped into Sherma’s lips, “Please, another.”

 

Who could say no to that? Sherma barely held onto his sanity. His warnings, his self-control, his every motivation to NOT do this like this with Momus, out of the window. Regret could come later, long after he took his satisfaction. And gave the Helexian begging underneath him what he wanted.

Another finger. No problem at all. Momus was entirely wet and eager and Sherma’s spike had never pinged him so insistently in his life. Don’t rush, don’t waste this, it may be the only time.

Momus tasted of the high-grade and of bad decisions and Sherma let himself be swept away by him.

Maybe more than his fingers, now? Three fingers wiggled, had plenty of room, were held onto by calipers. Definitely ready. Softly and with a wet little pop, drowned out by the holovid’s loud action sequence, Sherma pulled his fingers back and angled his spike to slip over the wet outer rim of Momus’ valve. They were  _ really _ doing this.

“Can I?”

 

Oh, lovely Sherma, even when he’d been three digits deep in Momus and listening to a constant litany of affirmatives, he still hesitated. Momus smiled at him, indulgent and hazy, and slipped an arm around his neck to pull him into a sloppy kiss. He didn’t draw back for a long time, savoring the heavy weight on his valve, waiting to plunge inside, and drew back with a affectionate bite to Sherma’s bottom lip.

“ _ Yes _ ,” he said, putting emphasis on the word, “Yes here, and yes to everything we might do after.” Momus was hardly going to be satisfied with only  _ one  _ frag tonight, after all. As long as the highgrade was flowing freely and Sherma was willing… well, why not?

He arched his back and wrapped one leg over the back of Sherma’s knees and pressed him forward, trying to drive his spike to where it should be. “Be warned,” Momus murmured against Sherma’s lips, feeling out the tiny dents his dentae had left on the derma there, “I’m bit of a screamer.”

 

“Noted,” Sherma whispered, forgetting it promptly because Momus was practically dragging him into his valve at this point. He may as well give in to the demand. Sinking into the Helexian felt...well. Even better than expected. Momus offered little to no resistance, calipers open wide for Sherma to slide between and so he did, gripping the frame of the former miner harshly to keep some control over himself and this situation.

“ _ Primus _ , Momus!” he gasped. It had been a little too long for him to go without interfacing, the thoughts of his beloved friend parching him of any desire for anyone else. Even if he’d tried, he couldn’t have gone for it with a casual acquaintance.

 

The sound that escaped Momus was a cross between a scream and a moan as Sherma finally,  _ finally _ sunk into him. He didn’t hold back, pushing in fully in a single smooth thrust, and Momus received him gladly. If Sherma had felt good in his hand, then he felt  _ incredible  _ just inside him, warm and stretching his valve. The previous stretching already made sure he was comfortably loose, and he was; there was none of the discomfort hurriedness gave Momus.

His ragged shout petered off into a harsh pant, before he eagerly pressed himself closer to Sherma. “You feel good,” he murmured, his valve clenching around him with a wet sound. “We should’ve done this ages ago.”

If Sherma was open to more, Momus was already planning everything else they could do. Maybe, just maybe, Sherma might even be willing to indulge Momus’ kinks. He giggled at the thought, and dug his fingertips into the cracks between Sherma’s plating. “Frag me,” he demanded, “I want to feel you the whole day tomorrow.”

 

“You always get what you want,” Sherma muttered, but decided that this was enough talking for the two of them. Any more, and he’d remember that this was not a holovid ending that would begin their romance. This was a drunken mistake and he’d remember it forever and by tomorrow, probably with shame. 

But right now, in this second? He was with Momus, inside of Momus, kissing him, holding him, and most definitely interfacing with him. Sherma didn’t have any more patience for slow and steady. Maybe he just needed a little more fast and now, just like his best friend’s very nature dictated.

Jagged, hard thrusts, right into that welcoming space. Momus didn’t seem to mind. Sherma’s audials rang with his moans, his engine revving harder and faster as he increased his pace, steadied one arm on the couch for more leverage. Metal slammed into metal, paint would streaking all over both of them, but Sherma was done waiting for Momus to understand how deeply he loved him and wanted him.

 

Soon, the sitting room was filled with Momus’ piercing sounds –  too loud to be a moan, but too low to be a full blown scream. The couch rocked under them gently but Momus clung to Sherma for stability. He was, in Momus’ somewhat surprised opinion, a rather good lover. He was neither rough nor excessively gentle, and patient enough to wait before trying anything physically demanding. His brief pause to ask that question… all good signs of a very, very promising partner.

It’d been really too long for him. Momus overloaded with a shriek, and transfluid spurted from his spike to cover both their chests. His optics blown wide, charge crackling down his arms, and he grabbed Sherma to yank him into yet another kiss. His valve rippled, calipers tightening, and his biolights blazed with white light.

“In me,” he hissed, between breathes, “overload  _ in  _ me.”

 

Primus above and Unicron below, this was too much for Sherma to resist. Momus’ command was master of his frame and the Altihexan sputtered a little as his overload took him, almost entirely against his will and to his surprise, ripping up any notion of being quiet as Sherma’s engine howled, the charge racing along the outside of his frame. Tiny licks of electricity bounced along the solid edges and curves, dissipating before they could jump over to Momus.

Sherma vented hard, trying to piece his frazzled processor back together, spike still buried deep, now slickened with transfluid on top of lubricant. Momus’ valve was still clenching him tightly.

“Momus...”

“Mmmm?” Sorry, Sherma, Momus was a little distracted by his enjoyment of your spike. Try again in about five minutes, once he was done grinding himself against Sherma’s plating and enjoying the slow drag of fluids and spike inside him.

“Lay down, sweetspark,” Momus said, using his other leg to pull Sherma down on top of him. His one overload was already clearing the haze of the high grade, though it was only to be replaced by the charge jumping over him. “Gimme a moment or two before we continue.”

 

“...Momus.” Sherma persisted, not at all content to be content. This didn’t mean Momus understood anything. They hadn’t talked about it. Sherma really wanted to talk about it. They needed to, this wasn’t just kissing, after all. Sherma took interfacing personal when it came to his best friend.

“...let go of me.”

He needed to get up. He needed to get  _ out _ . Of Momus and of the situation.

 

“Don’t be like that,” Momus whined, hands scrabbling at Sherma’s back to try and keep him in place, “Come on, just a little while, please? I wanna lay like this a bit more. You’re warm. I told you I was a cuddler.”

Was Sherma the type who just  _ had  _ to go and clean off after a ‘face? That’d be unfortunate. Momus liked the mess of a good spiking, when it was still warm and sticky. He always cleaned before it dried, but until then, he just wanted to lay around for a bit and let his systems cool a little before cleaning off. Then aiming for another go, maybe in the washracks.

“We shouldn’t have done this.”

Sherma kind of cursed his overload, because it cleared out the haze of the high-grade far too quickly for his own liking. And it left him cold, even if his frame was still running hot. He wished he could go for a swim and a dive and sulk at the bottom of the ocean about how much of an idiot he’d been.

“This wasn’t how I pictured it.”

 

“You thought about us ‘facing?” Huh. Another surprise. With how unwilling he was to go beyond a few kisses, Momus had thought Sherma was plain uninterested in anything more charged. “I didn’t think I was your type. Or even close.”

The regret hanging over Sherma’s words was a little worrying, but Momus was confident he could stop it. “Look, Sherma. Are you scared this is going to change things between us? Because it doesn’t have to, though I’d be open to a more regular arrangement. It doesn’t need to be awkward, or anything.”

 

“It already is,” and Sherma really needed to watch his words and thoughts now, because Momus still didn’t seem to know and that would be the best way to keep it. 

So any more interfacing, and chances of spontaneous confession, had to be avoided. No matter how good he felt, still lodged in Momus’ valve.

“This just. It’s not going to work. I can’t be your casual ‘facing buddy, that’s not what I’m like.”

 

“You told me you pictured it,” Momus pointed out, his hands falling back from Sherma to cross over his chest instead, “that’s not someone who’s  _ not interested _ does. Why fantasize, when the real thing’s right here?”

Momus glared up at Sherma. “Won’t you consider it, even for a little while? I don’t want to ‘face with any other mech either –  I can’t trust them like I can you.”

 

Goodness, Momus was  _ dense _ . Even after the slipup and Sherma’s fantasies coming to light, the mech didn’t understand that this wasn’t about casual interfacing. This wasn’t a question of Sherma’s habits or the limitations of their friendship. 

This was like taking a blade and working it into your sparkchamber inch by inch. And Momus’ words just pressed it a little harder. Trust. So what, they’d frag, because someone else might use it against them? Momus may as well use a toy instead of Sherma in that case.

“I’m sorry, did you just imply that you’d like to use me as an  _ outlet _ ?”

 

“...did I offend you?” Momus was getting bewildered. The situation was getting progressively more surreal, because here Sherma was, still inside him, and now getting  _ angry  _ at him for something Momus wasn’t even aware of.  _ While still in him _ . Who  _ did  _ that?

“I don’t think of you as shareware,” he offered, trying to salvage the situation, “I meant that… I like ‘facing with you? And I want to keep ‘facing you? And since you’re attracted to me, I thought you would be fine with the idea?”

Uh. That covered all the bases, right? “I’m sorry?” he said, still uncertain. Sherma had this really annoying habit of winning all their arguments and making Momus feel bad in the process.

 

“This was a bad idea and I should have known better.” Sherma underlined his biting tone by pulling out of Momus and curtly closing his panel. Cleaning protocol would handle it, whatever else clung to him would be washed off when he got home, which is exactly what he intended to do. Space. He needed space, away from Momus and his wonderful, awful cluelessness.

Sherma scrambled off of the couch, field static with unnerved distress.

“It...It’s not...that simple. Sorry...I’m sorry Momus, I just can’t.”

“Wait. Wait!” Momus closed his own panel hurriedly before scampering after Sherma, holding his hands up while broadcasting anxiety. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, “I won’t touch you again, I’m so sorry, I won’t even  _ look  _ at you if you don’t want me to. Just – just don’t go. Please don’t go.”

He circled around Sherma, blocking the corridor that lead to the door. “Just tell me what I  _ did _ ,” he insisted, now wringing his hands, “I don’t even know what I’m apologizing  _ for _ . Was it ‘facing with you? I thought –  you said  _ yes _ ! We were both drunk, but you hold yours better than me and I thought you were going to be  _ fine  _ with it!”

 

“I was, but I shouldn’t have been.” Sherma wanted nothing more than than reverse the last hour and slap sense into himself before giving in to Momus and temptation. This was going to frag everything up. He couldn’t possibly keep things casual, if he couldn’t even keep control of himself when they were alone.

Casual just made everything worse. Now he was brimming with regret and hideous emotions and telling Momus the real reason why he was freaking out would send everything to crash and burn.

“We crossed a line I never intended to, Momus. And I can’t undo it. I can’t ask you to forget what happened. I...”

No. No he couldn’t do this right now. He wanted to be alone and sink into darkness.

“Please get out of my way.”

 

“...will you come back if I do?” All his allies,  _ poof _ . Would this mistake lose him even his most steadfast friend? How could Momus have fragged things up  _ this  _ badly?  _ I shouldn’t have touched him. Never should have. _

“Where will you go?”

 

“Home. I need to think things through.” Sherma rubbed a hand over his faceplate. This was messy and horrible and Momus didn’t deserve another low point yet here Sherma was, throwing him down into it.

“I’ll come back. I just. Need to be alone.”

It had been too long since he’d seen Altihex anyway.

 

“...okay.” Momus stepped back reluctantly, giving Sherma the space he needed to leave his flat. His field was drawn in tight and stared down at his pedes, audials drooping. His entire frame slumped, hurt.

“I… I hope you can forgive me, senator. Close the door when you go.” Unwilling to let Sherma see just how much he’d upset Momus with his abandonment –  intended or not –  Momus retreated to his balcony instead. He sat on one of the sunning chairs, bringing up his contacts. He needed the company of people. Simpler, understandable people.

_ ::Smokestack, it’s Momus. Would you be opposed to an oil house crawl down in Helex?:: _


	11. Chapter 11

“Senatorser. Uhm. I mean Momus.” Smokestack offered a smile, waiting outside of the first oil house of the night. Helex had plenty to offer. The trainformer was still covered in the day’s dust, except for the places where he’d awkwardly tried to wipe it off since he’d be in better company than the usual.

No one gave the tall mech a second glance here, and Smokestack was a lot more at ease here than he’d been in Translucentica. For obvious reasons. Helex wasn’t his home, but it was one of the three cities he regularly travelled between, and it was full of mecha who could share his position and opinion.

“‘S a big pleasure. Honour. Both. Yer don’t come down much anymore ey?”

 

“Busy,” Momus shrugged, “Not much time to go tramping ‘round here when everyone at the Towers wants to use your fuel pump as a decoration.”

He took a deep vent and the smog of Helex hit his system. He coughed, before smiling. Yep. This was his hometown, ugly and polluted as ever. “Come on, what are we waitin’ for? Let’s go on in and clean out their stores. My treat.” Momus didn’t have much to spend his money on, with his fall from grace and Sherma gone. Why not make the night of a mech or two?

“I’ve a lot of woes t’ spill. Hope your big shoulders can carry ‘em as well as they carry energon.”

 

“Don’tcher worry ser I can handle it.” Smokestack got the door for the senator, who was greeted with recognition, once he stepped inside. He wouldn’t just be making the night of one trainformer, if he felt so generous towards his former peers.

It was tense for only a moment, a group of darkly painted frames with indistinguishable alts looking over and sizing Momus up. Each of them bore a smeared sigil in purple paint, which they were quick to cover.

Three drinks later however, everyone seemed to forget that Momus was a senator and the place was rowdy and loud.

“So...yer wanna unload?” Smokestack was a hulking presence next to Momus, but his field projected nothing but friendly intent.

 

“Here. You’ll need it for the sob story up ahead.” Momus tossed his card in the direction of the bartender, waving at him to take all the money inside and keep the highgrade flowing for him and anyone who asked. In exchange, two massive tankards of something purple, glowing, and smoking was dropped in front of them. Momus glumly sipped at his, lips numbing, before he continued.

“Right. So. Remember my party, back at the Heights? You notice a mech, a lil’ taller than me, aquatic kibble, green paint, goin’ around?”

 

“Uh...that night’s a lil’ blurry. Had a lot of good ‘grade,” Smokestack chuckled. It wasn’t just the energon back then. He’d been utterly distracted by a capricious little flightframe and that had been the rest of it. He remembered the chat on the balcony...and maybe, maybe a skulking mech who fit the description.

“Could be. Fancy fella, smooth helm like?” Smokestack made a motion indicating something fairly round and helmet-like.

 

“Yeah. Sounds about right. He’s another senator, like me. We got pretty close while workin’ on this proposal together, and I was thinkin’ he was my friend, yeah?” It sounded reasonable, as Momus talked. He took another angry sip.

“So me n’ him are a team, right? Workin’ on things together, bein’ real close. An’ I’m thinking, why not see what else can happen? I like him, he likes me, a mech would wanna see if his buddy can also be his  _ buddy _ , y’know?” It just made  _ sense _ . Momus looked up at Smokestack beseechingly, trying to get him to understand something so simple. Mecha from the three uglies just  _ got  _ it. 

 

“Bumpin’ n’ grindin’, I gotcher.” Smokestack grinned at Momus, perfectly understanding his implication. A buddy for a little interfacing action was nothing new or extraordinary. It just made sense to release tensions with a friend, it was a way to relax and enjoy each other, right?

Well, unless you were invested in courting someone, which was also something Smokestack understood, since his sweetspark was a mercurial little flying thief and of a similar disposition when it came to casual interfacing.

 

“Right so, me an’ him are at my flat, drinking and watchin’ a holo. The highgrade’s good, the company’s good, an’ I was thinkin’ why not make the night even better with a little fun? So we’re messin’ around. We both like it, lemme tell you that. There was none of that –  that  _ ambiguity  _ goin’ ‘round the matter, we’re both saying yes to the whole thing. We ‘face, and it’s all goin’ good until the load’s are done, and he freezes up on me.”

Momus ripped back a long draw. Smoke creeped out of his mouth as he scowled and slammed it down.

“Then he starts babblin’ on me. About how  _ we shouldn’t have done that _ and  _ this was a mistake  _ an’ a whole lot of other nonsense. He tells me, see, he  _ tells me himself _ he thinks I’m slick enough to ‘face and he’s thought about it, but as soon as it’s done, he just ups and runs. Who  _ does  _ that, I ask you?”

Momus snorted to himself. “Typical high caste. Gotta make  _ everythin’  _ complicated and run off without sayin’ a damn word to explain hisself. I was apologizin’ up and down the flat, and he’s tellin’ me  _ he needs to go  _ and  _ needs alone time _ . What. The. Frag.”

 

Smokestack whistled, low. Momus hadn’t been kidding when he said he needed to unload, but the trainformer hadn’t expected the senator’s troubles to be so personal. It was good to know even in the highest places, the same problems persisted as down low in the dirt. Mecha were complicated and the fancier they were, the more issues they seemed to carry around.

“Sounds like yer got yerself a prickly one, Momus. I mean. That the first time yer ‘faced with each other? ‘Cause that whole thinkin’ about it sounds to me like maybe yer on his mind as more. Yer know? More than a bud.”

Smokestack shrugged. Mecha like himself weren’t coy, but Radar for example, he got real prickly when it came to emotions, which were miraculously attached to things Smokestack didn’t expect.

“I mean. I don’t know yer pal, ser.”

 

“Don’ call me ser when we’re sittin’ in an oil house while I tell my issues, mech. How’d you like if I went and popped your title every time we talked, hm?”

His tankard finished. Momus tossed it to the bartender, who handed him something green and sparkly. He gave it a dubious look before swallowing it down. It tasted like engine oil, if engine oil was meant to burn your tanks out.

“Don’ be ridiculous, Smokes. First off, I talked to him ‘bout that stuff. Conjunxes, types, y’know the gig. The mecha he’s describin’ ain’t me, not by a long shot. He’s all work, work, work and’s waitin’ for  _ the one _ .” He raised two fingers and crooked them up and down. “Got some romantic novel in his brain module, with a lovely lil’ honey and a water-paddlin’ sparkling. An’ I  _ get  _ that. I get that it’s his thing, he wants love, all that, what I’m real torqued about is that he goes an’ gets all  _ weird  _ when I try an’ tell him it don’ need be all complex and slag.”

 

Smokestack started on his next drink, something inky and midnight-black and thick. Some things were different to a regular labor frame and a trainformer, and his tanks were definitely one. This type of fuel burned slow, and lasted forever. Better to haul with, and a longer buzz if consumed for pleasure. Other mecha called it track-sludge. It was definitely Smokestack’s favourite.

“But, maybe,” he tapped his fingers on the table, ignoring the small crumble of dirt from the joints, “maybe that’s why he’s bein’ funny about it. Yer know? Maybe he wasn’ thinkin’ of some honey.”

Smokestack could relate to the notion of romance. He really, really could. A dopey grin sprawled on his face for a moment.

“Sometimes, yer just can’t help it. Maybe yer makin’ him think he ain’ got to search anymore.”

 

“Riiight.” Momus sipped his drink in a sniffy, sarcastic way he’d learned from rubbing shoulders with the high of the high. “Okay, fine. Let’s entertain yer avenue of thought for a mo, and pretend he’s head over wheels for my aft. Okay. So why’s he runnin’ off after a ‘face? Isn’t that like… the  _ goal _ ? Shouldn’t he be all over my engine if that’s the case?”

 

“Nah,” Smokestack eagerly jumped on this direction of conversation. Discussing romance and feelings and intentions, he didn’t get to do that a whole lot.

“See, it ain’ right. It ain’ like it was in his helm. No wooin’ and all that. And I don’ know no high caste mech, but they don’ do it like we do. They don’ frag around or nothin’, that’s why they’s prissy.”

Animated, the trainformer leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“He maybe wants it to be complicated, yeah? He wants yer to notice him not as a buddy. Trust me, I’ve been on a ride like that. My ‘junx wanted me to chase ‘im and he’s a bloody flier so you can just picture that. Me, runnin’ after ‘im. Looked bloody stupid, I bet.”

 

“So what am I supposed to do, then? I’m his buddy, I don’t  _ feel  _ that way none. I trust him with my back an’ my life, and I’d dive into the Pits for him. But that romance slag? Like, mech, that’s a whole new level of out there.”

Momus paused. “Not that I think he’s in love anyway. That’d be a fool thing to do.”

“...should I ask if he is?”

 

The trainformer shook his helm.

“That’d be a fool thing to do too. ‘Specially now that you’ve faced n’ all.”

He thought for a long moment, staring into his sludge for inspiration. It wasn’t the same for Momus and his senator, but he could see some parallels. Radar was reluctant to admit to emotion, even though they’d bonded and he’d made an awkward declaration. Maybe Momus’ friend thought the same of him?

“I think yer better think ‘bout how yer feel, Momus. Not ‘bout romance or nothin’, but ‘bout yer friend. If that was what he’s wantin’, he’s probably upset that yer wouldn’ think about courtin’ him.”

 

“I  _ know  _ what I feel,” he persisted stubbornly, “I ain’t borin’ you with the details but like… what, you wan’ me to  _ examine my feelings  _ and figure out if I’m willin’ to try and start courtin’ him, or somethin’-like?”

Sherma as a subject of courting. He tried to imagine himself bringing crystal buds and pricey energon and gelled sweets over, taking him to fussy dates in  _ aesthetic  _ restaurants, and peppering him with compliments about his paint. It didn’t fit. Momus preferred to drag Sherma around town and throw orgies at his flat, then work their afts off.

“I don’ know if I even love him like that. Ain’t that worse if I court him, an’ he ends up waiting for the big L for however long? Supposin’ if it even happens, that is.”

 

“Alright alright, keep yer platin’ on, mech,” Smokestack chuckled. That vehement denial was just proof of the opposite. Momus probably hadn’t taken any time to consider feelings. He was a senator, he was probably up to his optics in work.

“So yer don’ want him? Yer would be alright if he got some prissy conjunx? Some high caste mech, snatchin’ him away from yer for good?”

The trainformer’s amber optics were glued to Momus.

 

In return, his optics narrowed. He pointed at Smokestack suspiciously, taking a drink. “Now, mech. That ain’t playin’ fair. I didn’t say that.”

_ Crosscut _ , his brain module reminded, and Momus scowled harder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll admit it, it turns my engine to think of him bein’ attached to some high caste. Don’ mean I wanna wine and dine him, or settle.”

 

“So yer don’ wanna court him, n’ yer don’ wanna see him courted. ‘S not real fair, is it?” Smokestack was getting somewhere. Momus just needed some help in clarifying his emotions, that was all. Maybe he just needed to be coaxed towards his epiphany.

“And yer wonderin’ why he’s mad, but yer sure he’s not in love with yer? I don’ see no other reason for it, Moms. I mean. Maybe it’s high caste not wantin’ to be a frag buddy that yer grindin’ whenever yer want, but yer don’ seem like yer’d be close to someone like that.”

 

For lack of a better reply, Momus finished his drink. He grabbed a whole pack of shots and put in three before stopping. Drinking this much, this fast, he was bound to purge and then cry over a hangover. Whatever.

“You are making a disgusting amount of sense. Too much for comfort. So what, you sayin’ I’m crushin’ on a mech without even knowin’ it? ‘S that the grand conclusion?”

 

“Somethin’ like it. He’s in love with yer and maybe, just maybe, yer a little more attached than yer realise. I mean. Maybe yer just so close yer can’ picture nothin’ different with him. But...if yer look at it from his side. How does it look?”

Smokestack was only mildly distracted when a particularly nasty laugh of a small mech from across the bar shrieked an octave above the music. Smokestack smiled, smitten.

“It’s not so bad, yer know. All that sappy romance slag.”

 

“I hope you’re right,” Momus said darkly. “Right, you’ve given me a lot to think of. Not all of it’s kosher, but meh, I can work with the enemy I know. Mind doin’ me one last favor? You can take the rest of the credits in that card, use it for whatever, I don’t care. Jus’ put me somewhere safe when I pass out, alrigh’?”

 

“It’d be my genuine pleasure, Moms.” Smokestack grinned. Carrying a passed out mech or ten was no problem for him and he would make sure that senator Momus would be safe for the entire duration of his visit to Helex. He was one of them, maybe the best one of them, having made it out, but never forgetting his roots. Momus might not even know how much mecha like Smokestack appreciated the fact that he didn’t think himself above the rest.

“I’ll getcher home when yer slagged, no worries.”

 

-x-

 

Momus woke up feeling like absolute slag. His mouth was parched, his plating felt tight, and he was lying on something flat yet lumpy. He turned over, burrowing his face into his arms, and whimpered.

“Oh,  _ Primus _ . Someone kill me.”

The ground felt like it was shaking under him. Ugh. He was going to purge.

Last night was a blur. Somewhere around shot fifteen, the weight of all the highgrade hit him like the fist of a metrotitan, and Momus went from moping next to Smokestack to belting out off-tune songs on the karaoke and buying rounds to the bar. The they’d left to the next oil house, and that had turned into a fight only stopped when Momus bought  _ more  _ high grade and slipped under the table to eat whatever he dropped off the floor. Then another oil house that might have been a part-time brothel. Momus tripped over a lot of people, fell in a lot of sticky pillows.

“Where… am I?”

 

“Mornin’ Moms,” Smokestack’s voice rumbled under him, louder than he’d ever spoken in person, but his engine was loud and the rumble of tracks beneath him justified the volume. He blew his horn just to greet the senator’s awakening, the sun beating down on the long row of carts being pulled along at a moderate pace. They’d gotten some weird looks at the mine this morning when Smokestack had pulled up with a sleeping senator riding shotgun on him. Now, Momus had been comfortably arranged on the first cart, so nothing could shake him loose. Smokestack had a schedule to keep to, and couldn’t afford to stop to pick up fallen drunks along the way.

“Yeah. Morning.”

A sharp little voice from the sky, then a black shadow darted down to transform and stand in front of Momus, hands on hips, a scrutinizing red visor and perked, massive finials pointed his way. Sensory equipment lined the mech’s entire helm and his long wings folded stiffly down his back.

“We don’t usually take on hitchhikers, but senators apparently get free rides.”

 

“Uuuuunggghhh,” Momus covered his audials with a pitiful sound. “Not the horn, mech, not the bloody damn  _ horn _ .”

He curled up into his cart. “You took me along? Thought you’d leave me in a nice lil’ corner at the bar. Where’re we?”

 

“Halfway to Tarn, should be there in roughly three hours if big mech keeps up this pace. What did you feed him, senator? He’s positively radiating energy. Dunno if I like that.” Radar patted the cart’s side, the dull clang a horror for a hungover mech of any caste. They’d only half-filled this cart in order to have Momus somewhere safe and out of the glaring sun, but as soon as they hit Tarn, they would need the space.

“Name’s Radar. I know who you are, obviously. I just don’t know why you’re here, or why you stayed out past curfew. Couldn’t get you back to Iacon at all.”

 

“Sorry,” he muttered miserably, “I wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ to Iacon. Was hopin’ I’d wake up in one piece, pity myself a lil’ more, then wander back in my own sweet time. I think Smokes was drinkin’ some black slag. He drank a lot.”

He stuck a hand out for the small mech he could vaguely see. “Momus. You?” 

 

“I told you half a second ago. Radar,” the flightframe took his hand, but only because he smelled a potential amount of shanix in his future if they helped this boozer out. Smokestack had the worst taste in friends, and this wasn’t the first accessory he’d brought along. Though they usually didn’t live in Iacon in the first place and the trainformer was giving them a ride home, which, incidentally, was also one of Radar’s business ventures.

Why pay for transport when his conjunx could haul along at least fifteen mecha in his altmode?

“Here. Some mid-grade to wake ya up.” He handed Momus a small cube with brightly blue fluid sloshing around in it. 

 

He took it. A few miserable drops got in his mouth. “This tastes like slag,” he reported, “Tarn. How long we staying in Tarn for?”

 

“Four hours, depending on how slow they load. We’re only at half capacity right now,” Radar gestured over the rim of the cart to the six others, “Double this load, easy. Then we’re off to Kaon refinery. From there, to the mines, then up to Petrex. Deliver, repack, up to Altihex for shipping and back to Helex through the Reds.”

Radar took a seat, looking out over the dusty bowl of wasteland they were currently plowing through. Sand ground in Smokestack’s wheels, but the trainformer had dealt with worse. At least the government paid for his repairs. Replacing him was a little more difficult than a miner.

“Whole tour takes about two months. You can get a transport when we get to Tarn, cost ya a pretty penny but it’ll get you back to Iacon licketysplit.”

 

“Nah.” Momus leaned out and spat after rinsing his mouth out with the midgrade. “I have my own plan. How about you dump your load at Tarn, I use my fancy wancy senator powers to pull you two off the roster, and we cruise over Cybertron to drink and mess around? I need drinking buddies, and you two seem decent enough.”

He peeked over his arm. “I’ll pay you two double your salary. Triple. Quadruple. How much do you even get?”

 

Radar twitched for a moment, calculations running through his helm.

“Listen here, just because you’re a senator don’t mean you can just- did you say quadruple?”

Even with the losses from the business he was going to make if they didn’t complete their tour, it would be a profit. Radar’s interest was peaked alright. Smokestack grumbled approval beneath them.

“That...that’d be a million shanix. For Smokes. Four hundred thousand for me.”

Radar’s mouth ran dry and his field surged in hunger.

“But, I mean...you’d be inconveniencing my business. And the repairs don’t come out of our pocket.” 

 

“Sweetspark, my floor at the Heights cost me a million. The lower floor half that. I think I spent a quarter million in my bar crawl, because I was buying  _ everyone  _ drinks and the bartender raised the prices minute he saw me. I can pay you two, both each, two million up front, with all the fancy stuff. Restaurants. Bodyshops. Holos. Hotels.  _ Fancy _ .”

Momus rolled over to sip more midgrade. He looked slightly better, if scuffed and stained. “I get paid. A lot. People pay me, a lot. I throw parties because I can’t figure what else to do with all the money camping out in my accounts. Help me figure out my problems, and I’ll grease up your business too.”

 

“Done deal, I’d say,” Radar couldn’t possibly say no to those numbers. His helm rang with them as they circled around and around, pretty zeroes dancing over his visor.

“Uh...are you going to get a livin’ cart? We ain’t got one, see? We just have a fuel tank on Smokes’ back, I recharge when we get to the stops, he doesn’t at all. You gonna be able to handle that, senator? We’re not running a cruise here.”

 

“Do you want a livin’ cart? Jus’ give me a direction to throw money at. Seriously.” His hangover felt mildly better. “Got another cube, sweetspark? Still a lil’ parched.”

He stood on wobbly pedes, knees shaking thanks to the trembling flooring. He glanced at Radar. He was… small.

“Ah. You must be the ‘junx Smokes was talkin’ ‘bout.”

 

“Ugh,” Radar slapped the cart, as if it could relay his ire to his massive conjunx, “He goes and tells everyone, the big sap. Yeah. That’s me. It’s no big deal, I don’t know why he’s always fussin’, the big idiot.”

Smokestack rumbled his reply with some amusement.

“Because I don’ mind tellin’ the world.”

“Yeah well the world can stay out of our business, a’ight? I have had enough people askin’ me how I fit you for one lifetime, thanks.”

Smokestack laughed at that. Radar sighed, but there was exasperated fondness in his voice.

“If it ends up burning a hole in your helm, senator, I ain’t answering that question ever again in my life. Anyway. From what I heard, you got love troubles of your own to be worrying about.”

 

“I don’t need to know the logistics of your ‘facing, thanks,” he said dryly, “And yes, I do. Do you have the full sob story, or do I need to go off on another tangent again?”

He waved his hand. “And a cube, if you would. I think I purged up everything from last night and my tanks are runnin’ real empty.”

 

“Oh, yeah, here you go,” Radar turned and grabbed another cube off of a stacked pile, throwing it to Momus rather than handing it over like a civilized being.

“I heard it all, thanks. You been sleeping all morning, somehow. You didn’t even stir when we loaded up. To be honest I kind of thought you were dead, but it’s good you’re not.”

Radar settled back down, clearly content to make conversation.

“I don’t get high castes at all. Just...you know. About your troubles. Smokes thinks it’s love, but he always thinks that. Sometimes mecha are just afts.”

 

He caught the cube, and sipped from it slowly. Settling down in a more or less stable spot, he looked at Radar evenly. “Maybe so,” he shrugged, “but I fancy myself a good judge o’ character. Sherma’s many things, but he ain’t the kind who stabs you in the back.”

He stretched, popping his legs onto a container. “Tarn… that’s where Megatron’s from, isn’t it? Megatron of Tarn, author of  _ Towards Peace _ .”

 

“Yeah. Though I hear he’s been real careful these days. Seems like some of your friends up top don’t like what he has to say,” Radar’s voice became sharper and colder. This was a subject he was downright passionate about. Momus had earned a bonus with his cash and knowing who Megatron was, but the fact remained that he was a sellout, a senator and had left them all behind to live a plush life.

“At least he’s saying something. No one else is. Fragging Iacon...They don’t give two slags about us.”

 

“Don’t call them my friends,” Momus snapped. “I’ve been in that snakepit a hell lot longer than you have, and I’ve got just as much reasons to hate them. My life wasn’t always cushy money-grubbing, y’know. I’ve lost friends in the mines, to starvation and cave-ins. Going up meant I only got to see how rotten we are, up close.”

He moodily guzzled down the rest of his energon and set the cube down. “Have you seen him? Spoken to him?”

 

Radar looked sour at Momus’ outbursts, and he certainly would continue to think that the Helexian was living the high life with little regard for the dirt far below. It wasn’t like Momus was spending his millions on improving projects. No. He had a place in the most exclusive residence block in Iacon and now he was spending four million shanix on a personal roadtrip to...sulk, or something.

“Megatron? Yeah, I’ve seen him. Smokes thought it’d be a good first date to take me to a damn ralley. Haven’t spoken with him though. Not such an outgoing fella, that Megatron. Also, you couldn’t get word out to him if you tried. He’s gettin’ a sort of..posse.”

 

“Posse?” That sounded interesting. Momus wanted to help, anyway he could. “Anyone of note? The whole Decepticon movement seems to be becoming much more organized. Hey, Smokes, suppose you could take me to a rally? I’d like to see what it’s like.”

 

“Oh you’d love it, although they’re usually dry,” Smokestack commented, very much listening to the conversation taking place in the cart. It was a bit of a strain for the train, considering how noisy he was in general, but he didn’t want to miss a word.

“We’ll see,” Radar tempered, not sure if it was a good move to bring a senator straight to Megatron. Who knows what could happen, Iacon security could bust in over their heads or blow the whole place up.

“Look, I don’t mean to be stepping on your toes, senator, but I don’t know if we can trust ya with that. The mech’s an inspiration. He don’t need to be tried on for puppet strings.”

 

“Don’t call me senator,” Momus said, out of sheer habit, “You think I don’t want to see Megatron’s dream happen?  _ Towards Peace  _ is an inspiration, and a change we dearly need. I failed, trying to change things the way the Senate wants it. Maybe it’s better if we burned it all down.”

He shrugged. “I want to meet Megatron. See what kind of mech he is, beyond the words on the datapad. If he’s the one who can lead us, then I want to throw my lot in.”

 

“See now I really don’t believe you,” Radar snapped, wings flaring, ready and eager for confrontation. His shoulders shifted, four barrels protruding and taking aim. Not that he’d shoot, but it was his instinctual reaction to an argument.

“Radar, Moms isn’t like the rest of them,” Smokestack rumbled, concerned now that his conjunx was taking such an aggressive stance on things.

“He’s filthy rich and slumming it with high caste. I think that qualifies as one of them, Smokes.”

“What about the money?” Smokestack tried to assuage his conjunx, keep him calm and from inciting any further spite.

“Money don’t qualify a visit to Megatron. If he really wanted to change somethin’ he’d have done it by now. Burn down that fucking entire slagfest of liars, instead of slumming it with them!” 

“Radar!”

“Whatever, I’m goin’ up.”

Radar transformed and shot into the sky, soon only a tiny black speck, circling above them.

Smokestack heaved a sigh.

“M’sorry, he’s got a temper. And trust issues...actually, a lot of issues. He don’ know yer, Moms.”

 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about, I think he liked me,” Momus shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m used to this side of the castes too. High castes think I’m a lucky upstart who needs to be kicked down to where I belong, low castes think I’m a traitor living it high and doing nothing to help ‘em. Fraggin’ ungrateful lot, but their lives are hard. If he wants to get angry at me, let him.”

Now that Radar was gone, circling the skies while he cooled his temper, it gave Momus some privacy to talk to Smokestack instead. “I do actually want to meet Megatron,” he said, “Suppose there’s a way that’s not goin’ up to a mech an’ asking them to make me their plus one?”

 

“S’no trouble, Moms. I’ve been down most mines round this circuit. Got a bunch of mecha that could give yer a chance ta talk ta Megatron. I’ll getcher sorted.”

Smokestack sounded relieved that Momus hadn’t taken it too personally with Radar, who he was going to have a strong word with over comms when the senator settled.

“Just lean back n’ enjoy the view. S’not often yer getta see the Wastes up close n’ personal. Take yer mind off of that Sherma fella and the snakepit.”

 

“It’s no trouble at all, sweetspark. I think I’ll go sulk in a cabin somewhere and host a private pity party for myself. Call me if you need me, you’ve got my comm.” Momus slunk over to the window, to stare out at the empty waste. Laying like this, his mind grew curiously empty as the landscape zipped by in indiscriminate flashes of red stone.

He missed Sherma. This whole trip would be a lot more fun, if he had Sherma’s dry wit in his audial. It came rarely, but the instances it did was always a delight. Even just sitting next to him, fields calm and mingling, saying nothing with a comfortable silence between them, would have been good.

He glanced at his wrist. Maybe… maybe a comm?

Alright. Just the one. If there wasn’t a reply, he’d leave it be.

_ ::Enjoying your sabbatical?:: _


	12. Chapter 12

Answer came not too long after. The comm had been flashing and Sherma had been ignoring it in favour of exploring the underwater cavern further, but when he glanced at who it was from, his will to ignore the world weakened. Just a comm. Was it intended to sound cynical? No...surely Momus wasn’t angry. Or maybe he was, after having some time to think things through.

There was only one way to find out.

_ ::I discovered a new species of petrolcrab.:: _

A pause, some hesitation, then the second comm.

_ ::I called them Momesian Sludge Crawlers.:: _

 

He stared. Is that supposed to be a compliment, or an insult? He couldn’t tell.  _ ::...Thank you? I think?:: _

_ Is this you trying to not-tell me I’m a sludge crawler or… _

His helm  _ thunk _ ed against the wall of the cart.  _ ::I’m out in the Red Waste. It’s red and dead. Wish you were here.:: _

 

_ ::In the wastes? You do know how aquatics feel about red and dead and dry, right?:: _

Sherma laughed to himself, bubbles surging up from his nose towards the surface far, far above him. What was Momus even doing, in the wastes? That was absolutely no place for a senator, even if they formerly belonged to a caste that would be expected to brave such a place.

_ ::As for the sludge crawlers, they’re yellow and white and try to pinch holes into tanks for fuel. They’re nasty, but also kind of admirably persistent. You’d like ‘em.:: _

_ I miss you. Primus, I miss you so much. _

 

_ ::You know the golden rule. If I suffer, so should you.:: _

That sounded a little more pointed than he intended. Would Sherma take it the wrong way? Momus hoped not. And now he was realizing that he was overthinking their communication in a way he never had before.

_ ::Are you calling me a siphoner now? Pits, the love is really dead.:: _

No, no, no,  _ and now he was making it worse.  _ Momus wished he could go back to a time where he just said anything he wanted,  _ without  _ realizing the connotations two seconds too late. 

 

Silence was his answer as Sherma angrily surged through the depths for a long moment. He needed to calm himself, and the heavy water pressure was helping with that. Finally, he composed a reply, though he was tempted to send along some glyphs to express his emotional state with it.

_ ::What are you doing in the Wastes?:: _

The humor was wiped out, replaced by dry, factual conversation. Cool. Distant. The way they should have stayed to avoid this entire mess.

 

His jaw tightened. Momus glared at the text. _ Oh, now you get to be emotional, huh?  _ Nothing like,  _ I’m sorry for jumping ship and not saying anything to explain myself because who needs clear communication, amiright?! _

_ ::Self-evaluation since you went and left me.::  _ Sherma wasn’t the only one with some hidden fangs.  _ ::Specifically about you.:: _

And he was going to send just that. See how  _ you  _ enjoyed being left with vague passive-aggressive messages in the cold, glitch.

 

Sherma frowned. He probably deserved some spite from Momus, seeing as he had left in a less than eloquent manner. Still, he'd made a decision to spare them both his breakdown. Momus could be bitter all he wanted, their friendship wouldn't have survived that.

::...and what has your conclusion come to?::

_ Not the truth, I bet. _

 

_ ::You’ve been hiding something big from me. I was all confused as to why you’re so upset over this whole ‘facing thing, but it’s not just that, is it?:: _

He sent it. Then, just because he was feeling vindicative – 

_ ::I know.:: _

Hm. Perhaps that was a little too much?

_ ::Why would you hide that from me? Did you think I was going to disown you and sell your secrets? What happened to honesty, Momus and Sherma, the team?:: _

...nah. 

 

It wasn't just the water that had Sherma’s tanks freeze up. Momus’ words were vicious, and they burned like dry ice in his brain module. Sherma shivered, idling near the bottom of the ocean in cool sands.

Did he know? Did he really?

_ ::Why would I tell you something you didn't want to know?:: _

_ We're on the brink. This isn't the way I wanted to tell him. This is the worst mistake I can make. _

_ ::This isn't how I wanted it to go down, Momus. I wanted us to be a team, friends, and I know I fragged it up. I...I am sorry.:: _

Another pause. It was already lost, why not go all the way?

_ ::I'm sorry I fell in love with you.:: _

 

Momus wanted to pitch his comm out of the train and bang his helm against the wall again. Honestly.  _ Honestly _ .

_ ::I tell you I’m upset that you didn’t tell me, and you reply with “why should I tell you something you didn’t want know” WHERE IS THE LOGIC:: _

Okay. Okay. Calm down. He waited a minute, clenching and releasing his fist before comming again.

_ ::Don’t apologize for it. I just spent several thousand credits and a night of drinking and whining before I finally figured it out and what I would do with your dumb aft.:: _

Well. Here went nothing.

_ ::I still haven’t figured out everything. I don’t know when that’ll happen, it ever. But I want to try. I want to see if friends can be something more _ . _ :: _

“Hah,” he grunted at his comm. “Bleedin’ fool. Bet’chu didn’t expect  _ that _ .”

 

No, he really didn't. Sherma sat on the bottom of the ocean, his spark whirling madly as he read the comm, again and again. Was Momus lying? He didn't like romance and complicated emotions and attachments. He didn't like courting or anything of the ilk. And most of all, he didn't want or love Sherma as more than a friend. Maybe he thought this was the only way they would remain close. Pity.

_ ::Do you mean that? Momus, I don't know what to say, but I do know you. I will always be your friend, and on your side. You don't have to pity me.:: _

 

_ ::You’re an idiot.:: _

Momus was feeling increasingly merciless.  _ ::Let me repeat that. You’re a bleeding fool, a blistering glitch of an aft, so dense I could point you the tunnel entrance and you’d have a cave-in on the surface. Fragging dumb. So dumb. For someone as intelligent as you, you’re also very stupid.:: _

_ ::Do you want to continue your pity party, or are we going to finally be on the same page now?:: _

 

_ ::Insulting me isn't really getting your point across, Momus.:: _

Sherma could have slapped the slagger if he was here. Perhaps a face to face confession would have ended in a damn brawl at this point.

_ ::You mean it. You're going to let me court you?:: _

 

_ ::That’s what I’ve been saying for the last five messages, you completely code-mangled glitch.:: _

Momus hovered over the comm, before finally bringing up the voice chat. “You are a horrible, horrible mech who is going drive me completely insane,” he hissed, “ _ Yes _ , I want to court you,  _ yes _ I want to try romance, and  _ yes  _ I am still very upset that you didn’t tell me this at all!”

For a while, only his angry venting was audible. “And then you implied I would date you out of pity! I am tired of you constantly beating yourself up like this, hear me?”

 

Sherma squirmed when the voice came through. It was just so Momus to turn what should be an emotional highlight into a half-argument and some sort of commentary on his self-esteem. He felt like a fresh forge, being scolded for juicing up on boosters.

“Excuse me for doubting you would date me at all.” he hissed, before clearing up some of his anger and shoving it neatly underneath the astonished joy at Momus’ actual words, which repeated his mind for safe-keeping.

“Even like this, it’s...good to hear your voice. Honestly I’m at the bottom of the ocean and all that’s on my mind is you. You, you, you. Momus...I’m going to make you damn well appreciate romance for all it’s worth.”

_ Until you have no choice but to be in love with me, damn glitch. _

 

“Yeah? Well, I’m in the aft of nowhere because of you.” The retort was weak, but Momus didn’t care. “I missed you,” he said, voice getting suspiciously wobbly, “I go drinking and I turn to see if you’re there. I’m laughing and I try to share the joke with you. I’m in the damn Red Wastes and all I think is how it would be nice to share the view with you. It’s not even a good view, it’s fragging hideous.”

He slid down the cart wall. “I’m not coming for another two months. I still have things to see, work to do, mecha to fluster. So I want you to wait, alright? Wait for me. Just spend your time sweatin’ over our first date or something. Don’t go an’ get a fresh honey when I finally just caught up with you, got it?”

It was dumb, but Momus hugged his wrist, as if it would bring him closer to Sherma. “You can show me romance, glitch. I just want you back.”

He couldn’t say if he loved Sherma, or was capable of it. But his friend? He loved his friend. He wanted him back.

 

“You didn’t lose me,” Sherma replied, his voice taking on the slightest hitch. Momus, saying all these sweet things, right in his audial, was making his spark cave in like his plating on extended dives. He was drifting back up to the surface, letting the current gently pull him this way and that. He just wanted to hear more of that voice, for the rest of his life. He was doomed, downright doomed, with Momus in his life.

“I’ll wait for you. You know I’m good at that. Come to Altihex,” he sighed, warmth curling through his voice, “Come to Altihex and I’ll apologize and tell you to your stupidly handsome faceplate, alright?”

Oh he’d tell him, he’d show him, he’d never be stupid enough to let a wall of feelings come between them again.

“I miss you like crazy. And I know that’s rich, since I’m the one that left, but I do.”

 

“I’d miss me too,” Momus agreed, because he could. “When I get to Altihex, I want you to show me everything. The sights, the people, the paint stripper you call high grade. I never saw where you live there, so show me that too. You know so much about me and Thymesis, but I hardly know anything about what you were like. I want to know, all of it.”

_ ::Does Altihexan appreciation count if it’s on the spike?:: _

He was allowed to flirt now, right?

“Bring a Momesian Sludge Crawler for me. It can be your apology gift. Can I eat it?”

 

Sherma laughed as he surfaced, engine whirring loudly and water splashing as he headed for the beach.

“You know those damn things are bigger than your helm, right? I think they might have to be labelled a pest at the rate they’re multiplying.”

It was so, so good to hear Momus joke and flirt and be himself. He even forgave that cheeky comm, sending back a rude glyph the equivalent of a flipped bird.

“But sure. Would make a good pet for you, in Translucentica.”

He was going to show Momus every piece of his home, charming or not. The Helexian had never been to this city, and the clear skies and blue waters would definitely make a wonderful backdrop to any romantic situations Sherma could maneuver them into.

 

“You’d be surprised at what fits into my mouth.” Cheeky, cheeky. “I’m good at swallowing.”

The only hint of his glee was a soft giggle that escaped the fist he stuffed into his mouth to muffle himself. “Sure, I’ll take on as a pet. When you finally anger me enough, it’ll be my murder weapon. No one will ever see it coming.”

_ ::Promise to have a reunion date?:: _

 

_ ::Promise. And subsequent dates that are going to blow your mind.:: _

“It’d be a nasty death, but easy to disguise as an accident. I’ll keep it in mind in case you forget an anniversary.”

Sherma could have sprouted wings and soared at the soft giggle from Momus. This mech really was doing unspeakable things to his spark. He didn’t want to end the transmission or the voice chat. He wanted to spend his entire day and evening, listening to Momus.

 

_ ::Impress me then, lover.:: _

Momus continued to babble away –  talking about everything from how fragging ugly the Red Wastes were, how disgusting Helex still was and his oil house crawl, his current state of unwash, wondering if he could dive with Sherma into the ocean he adored, Iacon and its messes, and more until the Cybertronian sun was threatening to set below the horizon and Momus was bleary with tiredness.

“Mm. Could we talk tomorrow, too? I’ve still a long way to go, but we could fill the time together. It’s been a rather boring journey. I like listening to your voice.”

 

Sherma had simply sat on the beach, listening to Momus’ adventurous tales. Well, they weren’t so much adventures as they seemed a crazy path of distraction, fraught with high-grade and unlikely companions, but Sherma got the gist and the way Momus told him, it sounded like a reasonably good time. A journey they should have shared, really, but the chips had fallen and the two of them were thousands of miles apart.

“How about we call each other, every night? I want to hear where you’ve been. What people you meet. And make sure you don’t forget I’m waiting for you, my dear.”

_ Lover _ . Oh, that suited him well.

 

“Every night?” he echoed. “Well… I mean, if you can stand me chatting away at you everyday, sure. I’d be glad to.”

His spark spun a little faster at the endearment. It had almost been entirely gone since the frag-up, but this was a good sign. Things were coming to equilibrium, once more.

“I –  I have to sign off now. You should get some rest, go recharge, fuel up. Knowing you, you probably sat somewhere and just talked to me all day. I won’t keep you no longer, lover. Go on, get.”

He wasn’t going to be the first to sign off. Even as he waited, he lingered, like he was some dramatic holovid hero calling on his honey. He whispered, hoping no one could hear this particular bit. “You sign off first.”

 

“No, you.” Sherma wanted to linger in this moment. Everything felt better when it involved Momus, even a stupid call that neither of them wanted to end. What were they, holovid figures? Incapable of being apart for even a second? It was ridiculous and it made Sherma love him even more. If that was at all possible. He doubted it. 

“I mean it, Momus. Every night. I need to know you're missing me and that you're alright. I'm not the one who set out on a gung-ho adventure after an ill-advised night of reckless drinking.”

He was really going to have to do something about Momus' tolerance when he had the chance in Altihex. Where they were going to be together, in just two months. Primus, he couldn't wait that long. Even though he had to.

 

“No, I said it first, you have to sign off.” The whole thing was so childish that another compulsive giggle slipped out of him. “You know I’ll be fine. This barely rates in the top ten most dangerous and terrifying things I’ve been involved in. Reckless drinking and gung-ho adventures are part of my identity.”

“I’m going to sit here and wait for you to sign off. Don’t try and test  _ my  _ stubbornness, mech, I might add time to my adventures if you dare.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Time passed. They finally got to Tarn without incident –  though Momus rarely ever talked to Radar anymore. That was fine –  his talks with Sherma and Smokestack was more than sufficient to hold his attention. He ended yet another call that’d gone on from morning till noon, both of them babbling at each other while sipping on fuel, Momus' motor mouth somehow finding new topics despite the tedium of his surroundings.

“Fraggin’ glitch,” he said, ending the voice chat on a fond note. “Y’ever deal with Radar like this, Smokes? Bloody endearin’ but also damn frustratin’ mecha. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.” He stretched out, watching the hulk of Tarn slowly come closer. “We nearly there?”

 

“We’re almost there, Moms,” Smokestack had begun to sound tired, only in the last couple of hours or so. Running nonstop was taxing, but doing so for weeks on end was exhausting. When he’d gotten word from his buddies about the next rally Megatron would appear at, in his native Tarn, they’d changed plans and gunned it, since there was no other foreseeable opportunity to see the mech.

Radar had been furious when Smokestack told him they were going, and the air between the two was thick with pent up arguments waiting to explode. Yet, the small flier seemed to abstain from doing so in front of the senator.

“Yer know I’m real glad yer sorted things out with yer buddy. Err, yer special mech. I dunno whatta call him know but yer get it. And yeah...he’ll drive yer up a wall and all yer wanna do is maybe kiss him fer it.”

Smokestack sighed wistfully. Radar had been downright frosty for over a week. Not one affectionate word or comm or gesture. The flier even recharged on the roof of the living cart (they’d picked it up on their first stop when leaving the haul behind) in which Momus lived instead of on his conjunx.

“I’m hopin’ this rally cheers Radar up. He’s been real grim lately.”

 

“Sorry for that,” Momus grimaced, “It’s prolly my fault, with my presence an’ all. Take the money and have a nice vacation. Go tour an oil spa, or somethin’. I’m real grateful for the in to the rally, by the way. It must’ve been difficult to convince your friends to let me in.”

“Kiss him?” Momus snorted to himself, “I’m hankerin’ for that an’ more, but I also want to hit some sense into his thick skull. You heard my half of our argument –  can you believe that was us talkin’ ‘bout the romancin’? Anyone else would’a thought we were breakin’ up or similar.”

He patted the wall of the cart, though Smokestack wouldn’t feel it. “You should get a wink or two ‘fore we head to the rally,” he advised, “Recharge, a proper fuel-up, and maybe a talk to your torqued honey.”

 

“That’s the plan, Moms,” Smokestack said good-naturedly, knowing full well that the options were limited, talking to Radar or recharge. There was no time for both. He’d probably go with Radar, because he was an enormous sap and the little flier’s ire was no state to go to a rally in.

“‘Bout the rally though. Yer gotta promise yer’ll be careful. Things gettin’ a little...antsy. Everyone’s real nervous ‘bout the big bots upstairs findin’ out and, well, yer kinda one of ‘em. Not like ‘em, but still.”

 

“I understand,” Momus nodded, “I won’t try an’ hide it from Megatron, but the normal mech should think I’m just another guy at a rally.” He looked down at his paint critically. The gold of it caught the light, no matter what, and the color was too deep to be the gaudy shine of particularly enterprising shareware. “I should probably change up my colors ‘fore headin’ in. Don’ wanna cause any disturbances and a few might recognize me. Not too many low caste senators about.”

“You know any good bodyshops that’ll take money and no questions?”

 

“Plenty. ‘S the badge yer really gonna have ta cover up.” Smokestack doubted even the lowest of the low and the blind would not recognize he flared, almost winged sigil of the senate that Momus had to bear for his office. It didn’t bother him much anymore, but he could imagine to cause a stir beyond any semblance of control when someone recognized Momus. Panic, anger, everything would collapse on the senator. And he wouldn’t let it happen.

“I’m comin’ with yer, Moms. To the rally, to the shop. I said I’d keep yer safe and now I feel I owe it to yer sweetspark ta get yer to Altihex in one piece.”

 

“You’re a good mech, Smokes,” Momus grinned. “Thank you. You’ve been a rare friend –  giving me  _ Towards Peace _ , coming out when I called for you… I appreciate you.”

Huh. He didn’t feel inclined to show Altihexan appreciation here so… perhaps Sherma was the only who got to enjoy such practices from Momus.

 

-x-

 

“Whew. Tarn.” Momus wrinkled his nasal ridge as he looked around. “I didn’t go here, much. Always preferred Helex over it.”

 

“The smell’s a bit different,” Smokestack stretched out into his root form, towering above other mecha and looking around with unmistakable fondness for his gritty home. Tarn didn’t have the same quality of smog-air to it as Helex, but it was a strong contender.

“Good ta be home once in a while-” someone bumped into the trainformer and immediately, the offending mech snarled at Smokestack, who rumbled his engines and muttered something unintelligible that the other flip him off before wandering.

“Yep. That’s Tarn alright.” Smokestack grinned brightly at Momus.

“Listen,” Radar came to land on Smokestack’s shoulder, finding a comfortable seat and keeping his sneer for Momus to a minimum, “if you make any kind of trouble or bad attention, we’re out.”

“No, we ain’-”

“Yes we are. One funny look and a ‘hey you’re a fancy fella’ and we dump your aft here. Clear?”

“Radar yer bein’ mighty rude.”

“Watch how much I care.”

 

Momus watched him go, a little small on his face. “Low castes,” he said softly, undeniably fond. “I missed it.”

Radar’s warning hardly came as a surprise, and Momus winked up at him, his senatorial smile lodged on his face. He was beginning to enjoy Radar, in the same way one enjoyed something incredibly bitter and sour. With a grimace and another try. “Why, sweetspark, I would  _ never _ . I’ll get myself painted down and no one will look at my frame twice. Lead the way, Smokes.”

 

Smokestack did. The bodyshop was a typical joint that could be found on every couple of dozen blocks. Shady, shanix up front, no questions asked attitude, a silent mech who worked over Momus without a flinch or hesitation, spraying over the gold with a cheap paint that would rinse off with some scalding hot solvent. He also covered up the senatorial badge, although there was the faintest glimmer of question in his optics then. Radar’s scowl didn’t allow for him to ask though, and neither did Smokestack’s looming presence, even if the trainformer was happily enjoying rust stick the size of Radar’s legs.

When Momus had been finished off, the three of them, Radar on Smokestack’s shoulder (he really hated walking) kept staring down at the senator in disguise.

“...you shoulda kept your old paint, mech. You’d be more authentic if you weren’t so glittery n’ golden.”

The most convincing colours and patterns had been Momus’ old, mining caste dark green and dull white. The shop-mech had even painted on the hazard stripes of a miner.

Smokestack approved of this slightly-less-hostile approach by Radar and didn’t involve himself more than a smile.

The direction they were taking saw a stream of mecha, all amiably approaching the same destination. A massive staircase, leading underground.

 

“Unfortunately, authentic isn’t what puts you on the Senate. Glitter makes the high castes less inclined to toss me out on my face.” He inspected himself. The paint… was weird. It reminded him of Thymesis, even if it was slightly off in shade and placement. The hazard stripes…

He rubbed them.  _ Kinda missed these. _

“Is this it?” he murmured to Smokestack, pressing near his hand to avoid any accidental touches. “The rally?”

 

“We’re on our way, yep,” Smokestack held an arm over Momus, indicating to the other mecha, who were slowly but steadily getting packed tighter, that they shouldn’t try to jostle past the trio. Smokestack could have picked Momus up, but unlike Radar, he wouldn’t fit on the mech’s shoulder and that would just look strange. 

There was definitely an air of excitement over the crowd. As soon as they got down the staircase and into an old mining tunnel, the chatter grew louder. People were openly asking questions and discussing Decepticon ideas, or things they’d heard of, even other rallies they’d been to and of course, Megatron himself. 

“Big buzz around this one,” Radar murmured with some displeasure. He used his sonar to predict when they’d come into another open space. The tunnel was a great way of getting people somewhere that wasn’t visible by aerial patrols.

It poured them out into an enormous rocky bowl, just beyond the city limits. Tarn had a mountain range to work with, and this place was by far the biggest secret location Smokestack had ever seen. The skies were clear above them, suspiciously so. Cloaked? It would make sense.

Mecha began to fill the circular, flat space, all optics on a small stage up front, raised above the ground.

“Definitely the right place.”

Smokestack’s size afforded them space to move close to the stage, though not all the way to the front.

 

The air felt charged. Momus stood in his corner by himself, optics darting around as his audials strained to pick up everything and anything. This was… this wasn’t merely an underground movement. It was a budding revolution. So many bodies, so many people, all whispering of the same thing.

_ Change. Equality. The one who would save us all. _

_ Megatron _ .

He was bigger than Momus thought he’d be, and paradoxically not big  _ enough _ . He was all grey, characteristic of the simple mining class, and still had his hazard stripes across his helm and shoulders. Momus touched his own unconsciously, tracking the way the mech moved.

He was a natural ringleader. Momus knew it well –  the casual dominant swagger, the way his optics swept over the crowd and touched each person, even the imperious cast of his strong-featured face. Momus had spent years practising it –  yet Megatron of Tarn exuded authority as if he were forged for the mantle of kingship.

 

Megatron’s appearance roused awe and silence as the crowd stared at him. Everyone here was fully aware of Messatine, the mine, the riot, the assaulted senator Decimus (who had it coming) and of course, Towards Peace. Everyone also knew that Megatron was going to address them, inspire them and encourage each and every member of this audience to take up Decepticon ideals. To fight the good fight. To fight for hope.

“He’s fraggin’ regal,” Radar muttered, admiration thick in his voice. And he wasn’t the only one who had shining optics for the massive, solid miner frame with the blazing red gaze. Megatron took his position, and raised his hands in greetings to the crowd.

A cacophony of cheers ran through the entire bowl, every mech suddenly trying for Megatron’s attention by cheering the loudest for him. The overwhelming sensation of thousands of fields, mingling and meshing together in a hopeful mess washed over the crowd like a tidal wave.

Megatron smirked, and then he opened his mouth to speak. The crowd fell silent as if they were puppets, tugged on strings and controlled by just one hivemind.

“My friends. My brethren. You are all being  _ deceived. _ ”

 

Ah. That had been one of the wham lines of  _ Towards Peace _ , hadn’t it? Momus watched Megatron with practised optics –  he saw the techniques for what they were, the oratorical skill. It didn’t make him less impressive. In fact, it doubled it.

Megatron of Tarn, this was the sort of mech he was. Interesting.

“Can we meet him?” he whispered to Smokestack.

 

“I’ll see when he’s done talkin’.” Smokestack replied, earning them glares because the trainformer really could not for the life of him communicate quietly.

But some optics didn’t linger on the towering mech, but rather, the unassuming ‘miner’ beside him.

Next to the stage, just out of sight for most of the crowd, a sharp visor had Momus in its sights, never deviating from the mech.

Why was he here? What did he plan to do, disguised as a low caste laborer, hiding in a crowd at a Decepticon rally? 

Soundwave didn’t know. He could find out, most likely, by invading the senator’s frequencies, but he had yet to configure a way to do so against safeguards that most high-ranking Iaconians of power tended to install. It would be best not to make a scene until the crowd had gotten their fill of Megatron’s inspirational words, his righteous fury, and his hopeful quest for equality. That path was forged with violence and destruction and those tasted good to the bitter masses.

Soundwave didn’t need convincing. He had chosen his side. Now he was just doing his uttermost to obtain all relevant information for his new idol and hope, his leader.

And a senator would provide plenty, if approached and handled correctly, without causing a lynching. If the crowd knew what stood amongst them...

A brief comm to Megatron, and Soundwave had his order. Invading senator Momus’ comms proved easy enough.

_ ::This is far from Iacon, senator Momus of Helex.:: _

 

_ ::Not too far from Helex, though,::  _ he answered without thought, switching to his version of ‘the game’. He paused, however, as suspicion invaded his thoughts. Though Momus was canny enough to not draw attention to this, he remained wary, trying to see who might’ve caught him out.

_ ::I presume this is Megatron’s form of security?::  _ Not bad. Quite fast, rather discreet, though it could work on delivery.

_ ::Whoever you are, I hope you could pass on a message to Megatron. I want to speak with him. It’s nothing negative.:: _

Another quick look around, and he finally caught sight a blue boxy mech, with a red visor, staring at him. Momus gave him a slight nod, before turning his attention back on Megatron.

Well. Here was hoping for the best.

 

Soundwave didn’t deliver him an answer, right until Megatron was rounding off his speech. The crowd was livid with energy for him, enthusiasm mixed with downright vindicated aggression. Finally, someone was giving them something to point at and  _ blame _ . It charged them, electrified the atmosphere until Megatron could have commanded them to do near anything he asked. At least, on this evening, they were all under his spell. 

Questions and reality would rob them of their drunk exhilaration, but hope was much more potent and addicting than high-grade. And Megatron had given them just that.

_ ::Go to the west side of the bowl. Wait by the exit there. The guard had been informed.:: _

 

This was dangerous. Momus could  _ smell  _ the mob mentality growing around him, as all the mecha, bitter and downtrodden, began to find a passion to chase after. He glanced at Smokestack and Radar, and wondered.

_ ::May I bring my friends along? They’re not guards of any type, just mecha who were kind enough to let me in this far.:: _

He didn’t want to leave them here. This kind of energy was toxic. Violent. It robbed mecha of their intelligence and turned them into rioters with a taste for fuel shed. Sweet, gentle Smokestack and his conjunx –  the decidedly less sweet and gentle Radar –  didn’t deserve to be caught up in that kind of slagheap.

 

_ ::Affirmative. They may escort you.:: _

Soundwave’s transmissions were stripped of any emotion, but he certainly wondered what kind of mecha had brought a member of the senate to their rally. They were either ambitious and clever or completely idiotic. Or malicious. He didn’t like this, but Megatron had already decided on their course of action.

His departure had the crowd howling for more, no one eager to leave just yet.

Smokestack looked unconcerned by the growing waves of aggression, of unbridled outrage and festering accusation for Iacon, which was being thrown around loudly.

Radar was watching everything, hands on his sensors to shield them from the massive  audio overload feed. Smokestack’s voice bellowed out for Momus to hear.

“I think it’s time ta go Moms!”

 

_ ::Follow me.:: _

He grabbed Smokestack’s finger and yanked on it as he slowly traversed through the crowd to where Soundwave had indicated. He took a lot of shoving and snarling for him to get there –  even a few occasions where it looked to turn into a fight, before the other mech caught sight of Smokestack. It took longer than Momus would’ve liked, but they made it.

The guard at the entrance waved them in without a word.

Momus, a little hesitant now that he was gone from the crowd, pinged the mystery mech again.  _ ::Done.:: _

 

“Uh...Moms?” Smokestack had no idea why they’d been allowed through into a dark, steel-lined corridor. He had to bow his helm a little to fit, Radar still pressing his hands to his large audials, dealing with sensory overload silently.

Smokestack looked around, increasingly concerned.

“What’s goin’ on?”

_ ::Friends can stay here. They’ll be safe. Follow the guard.:: _

 

_ ::Couldn’t they meet Megatron? He’s their hero.:: _

Come on. Just once. They deserved that much, for letting him into their confidence and dragging his aft all over the place for this. Smokestack was probably breaking at least a  _ hundred  _ unwritten rules just doing this.

“One of Megatron’s contacted me,” Momus whispered, “Keep quiet.”

 

Roughly a hundred and sixteen rules, to be exact. Smokestack didn’t care though, because this was getting exciting and potentially way outside of his expectations. He raised a hand to comfort Radar, who only stared at Momus with indignation. If one of Megatron’s mecha had thought the senator was trustworthy enough to be pulled aside for a private audience, then he’d been way wrong about Momus this entire time.

Not that an apology crossed his mind, of course, but it was a little more than humbling.

“Are yer gonna meet him?” Smokestack couldn’t suppress the question, optics wide.

_ ::Unnecessary risk is to be avoided. You may bring the small one. The trainformer stays put.:: _

 

_ ::An audience, after, at least?:: _

“He’ll let Radar in, but not you, Smokes. I’m sorry.” Momus really did look apologetic. If anything, he’d much rather leave Radar behind. “We have to hurry, I think they’re getting impatient. Radar, will you come?”

 

“I-yeah, calm yer britches.” Radar stood up, leaning against Smokestack’s helm to turn his conjunx’ undoubtedly disappointed faceplate to him.

“Don’tcha worry big mech. I’ll ask him all the things I know you want to. See if I get you an autograph, or something.”

Smokestack continued to look devastated, but nodded. Radar gave an aggravated sigh and kissed his conjunx on the nasal ridge, before hopping down into his hand and down to the ground to stand beside Momus, who’s chest he just barely reached.

“Alright, no need to keep ‘em waiting.”

Soundwave didn’t give Momus an answer. The guard, a darkly plated mech with unusually bright optics, nodded his helm in indication for them to follow him through a door. Smokestack watched them leave, taking a seat in the quiet, empty room.

 

Momus led the way, following the dark corridor to wherever it went.  _ ::Where are you?::  _ he pinged, cautiously edging around each turn as if expecting a gun barrel to the face. The more the corridor went on, the more his unease prickled down his spinal strut. He could barely even hear the crowd anymore.

 

_ ::Waiting.:: _

The guard finally stopped, after seemingly endless turns and twists in their path. He’d lead them so far underground that the crowd wasn’t even audible at all anymore. It was silent down here, except for the swish of another door opening. At least they weren’t lead into more darkness. Soft, mostly red lighting greeted them here, as did several mecha who all looked suspiciously like gladiators and in their midst, Soundwave.

“Come.”

There was no need for further introductions when they small group, now lead by Soundwave, spilled out into the main room, in the center of which, Megatron resided, sinking onto a heavy chair with some high-grade in hand to reward himself for a successful night.

“Your visit comes as a surprise, senator. I didn’t know I was drawing the senate’s attention in so mild a manner.”

Radar quivered beside Momus, visor glimmering with admiration at being so close to the massive, hulking miner.

 

Ah, yes. This. Momus could handle this. A room, surrounded with those who didn’t trust him and something to prove? That’s what he’d been doing all his life.

He bowed his helm in greeting –  not low enough to be fawning, but a small gesture of respect anyway. “Momus of Helex,” he said, leaving the title, “Please, call me Momus.”

The gladiators were probably guards for him. They likely suspected ill motives from him.

“I am not here on the behalf of the Senate,” he said evenly, meeting Megatron’s optics. He was calm and the theatrics were gone. He couldn’t afford to play the buffoon here. “Rather, it’s my personal interest. Your manifesto,  _ Towards Peace _ , came to my attention at a very crucial time and after some time thinking it through, I opted to meet the mech behind it.”

Everyone here was at least a helm taller than him. Momus tilted his chin up, curiously unafraid. “You have very interesting ideas, Megatron. I want to help you.” There. Cards on the table. He was committed.

 

“You do?” Megatron regarded him calmly, optics ticking over the hazard marks, the paintjob that was bound to come off within another hour, the disguised badge of Momus’ senatorial office, resting out of sight but certainly not out of mind. Momus didn’t hold himself like a mech from Tarn, or Kaon, or even Messatine. He may have been a miner once upon a time, but he was something else now. Someone else.

“And why is that? I know all about your humble beginnings. A foreman. A foreman who received credit for...calling in an incident, does that sound about right?”

Megatron’s network of intelligence grew as quickly as his seething hatred for everything connected to the Functionists.

“You’ve done well. Technically. You should be far more powerful than I, a mere gladiator with an interest for literature.”

There was no mockery in Megatron’s words, but there was an underlying anger about his entire demeanour, one that could produce incredible willpower and horrendous violence. Both of which, Megatron was becoming a leader of mecha for.

“Why then, Momus, should you risk life and career by pledging allegiance to me and mine?”

 

“Power.” It came out unexpectedly bitter, but Momus didn’t hold it back. “Power. I should have it, shouldn’t I? I am a senator, top of the food chain, the big  _ mover and shaker  _ of the destinies of mecha.”

He shrugged, mouth twisting. “I guess I do, if you call money and the ability to hurt other people power. Yet, despite all of that, I never had the power  _ I  _ wanted. I could ascend to Primacy tomorrow and be called the exalted one of Primus, and I couldn’t have the power to change our society anymore than I could when I had been a foreman.”

There was no seat for him. Momus didn’t bother searching. His stance changed, as if he were delivering a speech at the podium of the Grand Imperium, staring up at the uncaring optics of mecha too far above the ground to see the people anymore.

“I thought that if I were a senator, I would have the ability to change things. Play the game, play the others in power, rig it until I could find a way to equalize our society. But see, here is the unfortunate truth of being a senator that doesn’t believe in the Functionist Council.” He clawed at his chest, until the paint was scraped off enough to show the badge. “This? This means  _ nothing _ .  _ I  _ am nothing. Whatever I do, it will be opposed. Whatever I propose, it will be crushed. I am the outsider, the low caste scum allowed in because I was merely  _ lucky _ .”

He slowed, thumb brushing over the purple colors of the Senate. “The power of a senator is an illusionary thing. The power of the  _ Senate  _ is an illusionary thing. The people believe it is real, so it is. I no longer do.”

“You, on the other hand… you are a symbol of hope, around here.  _ Towards Peace  _ says the one maxim we are all too afraid, or too hesitant, or too ignorant to admit. I thought becoming a senator gave me the power to change the world. I was wrong. Now, I hope that I can help someone else change the world, instead.”

 

Megatron listened, one hand supporting his helm. He didn’t interrupt Momus at all, absorbing his words with all the patience in the world. His optics only flared lightly when the senator revealed his badge and came to an end of his explanation. It was an admirable one, he had to admit. So much honesty out of a mech supposedly at the pinnacle of their society. Helpless anger that Megatron could very well understand.

“I admire your blatant honesty, Momus. I did not anticipate anyone moving in your circles to have read my work, let alone agree with it. The senate is a corrupt, obsolete mechanism of cruelty.”

And yet it still remained in power, just beyond his reach for now. Having someone inside of it work for him was an opportunity he would not miss. But there was no need to make that painstakingly obvious.

“You’re an interesting mech, Momus. I’ve read what has been recorded of the senate’s meetings, their topics of discussion. Having met you now, I am no longer surprised by your proposition to change labor laws. And it does not surprise me either that it failed to be passed. A good effort, nonetheless. You understand your position very well. But are you prepared to undertake what I may ask of you, should I take you into my fold? It will lead to the downfall of everything your life consists of. Change demands sacrifice. Are you prepared to acquiesce such a burden, should it fall to you?”

 

“I may be a senator now. But before that, I was a foreman. And before that, I was a miner. You haven’t forgotten your roots, so why should I?”

Momus listened closely. The offer was there but…

“I was not the only one to make that proposition. In fact, I wasn’t even the one to start it. I was still… cautious, at that point. My friend, Senator Sherma of Altihex, is the one you should be giving such credit to. He contributed as much as I did, and lost as much as I did.”

With the full credit passed to their rightful owners, Momus could now consider Megatron’s question.

“Will you change things? Will you burn out the rot, Under your grand revolution, will a miner walk with an intellectual as equals of the forge?”

 

“Nothing less will do,” Megatron didn’t hesitate to answer, promise and spirit burning in his gaze. He had a grand vision for the future of Cybertron, and he would bring it about, no matter if it was wrought in fire and death.

“From the ashes of Functionism, we will bring freedom unto Cybertron. No one’s form should dictate their function, and no one mech stands above another. We will see the rotten core of our world burn and begin anew.”

Megatron stood now, pacing over to Momus slowly, towering above him, without threat despite his massive frame.

“And I invite you to join me, Momus. To be my optic in the eye of the storm. With your help, we can outmaneuver the senate and its hounds. You could make a real change, if you’re willing. And I ask you again; are you prepared to lose everything as price for ushering in a new age?”

 

His gaze followed Megatron’s, refusing to be cowed. Momus only reached his abdomen, but he looked at Megatron with an iron will. “I am,” he said, firm, “All I have, my money, my power, my position, is yours as long as you show me the change you promised, Megatron. I will not be deceived anymore.”

He would not bow. Instead, he offered Megatron his hand to shake. “As long as you do not waver from your vision, I will follow you.”

 

Megatron’s large palm met Momus’ without hesitation. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that his will for change would never waver. He would better Cybertron, by force if necessary. Definitely by force. It was the only way the upper castes would ever pay attention and learn to fear them. In time, they’d submit, or perish and Megatron would build a new world order.

“Then I welcome you, Momus of Helex. Your aid will be of great benefit to our cause. And that matters, above all.”

Radar had stood at the back of the room when Momus stepped up to speak to Megatron, in a way he’d never heard out of the Helexian. Composed, elegant. Convincing. Maybe it wasn’t such a wonder that this mech had become a senator out of his own, free will and survived so far.

Was he supposed to say something?

Soundwave stared at him, before invading his comms. Radar clicked his dentae with surprise at the silent offer. This was a damn miraculous evening, not just an inspiring one.

“Me-Megatron sir,” he piped up.

Megatron looked over Momus’ shoulder at the even smaller mech. 

“I am not your lord, or your commander. What is your designation?”

“Radar. Big fan. Uh. I was just wonderin’. My...my conjunx he’d really want to meet you. In person.”

Megatron glanced over to Soundwave in question, a silent exchange between them.

“I unfortunately do not have more time. But Soundwave will give your mech my comm line. I won’t deny him his request, he’s done the Decepticons a great service by bringing Momus here. You both have. You have my gratitude.”

Radar nodded eagerly, ready to pledge his life and entire spark to the Cause for this magnificent mech.

 

“Megatron,” Momus said, sensing their time together coming to a close, “A last word of advice, before you leave. Not all high caste mecha are deliberately malicious –  just ignorant. Don’t trust a Prime, as long as they are in the Senate’s pocket. If you see an opportunity to eliminate your enemy,” Momus’ optics narrowed, “don’t hesitate, the Senate most of all. Cut out the spark, and the rest follows.”

He nodded brusquely. “I will go, now. I have your second’s comm channel. If I need to contact you, it will be through him.”

 

Megatron inclined his helm to Momus, a gesture of gratitude and farewell. Momus would be incredibly useful. And should the senate become more involved in stopping his revolution, Megatron would know about it.

“Momus,” he called out, stopping the senator from departing just yet. With his badge visible and his paint smeared, there was no way he’d be able to leave through the same way they’d come in. The crowd, rowdy by now and rampaging through the upper districts of Tarn, would tear him apart.

“I’ll be in touch,” he indicated a different set of doors, “Your large friend will join you there. It’s best if you do not linger in Tarn for the near future. I need you in Iacon as quickly as possible.”

 

“Thank you,” Momus said, “Let’s go, Radar. Smokestack is waiting.”

He had some unfinished business to tie up. Sherma needed to know what happened tonight, so Momus’ arrival in Iacon would have his partner at his side, ready to defy the world together once again. With one last parting nod, Momus left the room as quietly as he’d entered.

_ ::Smokestack, my paint got damaged. Do you know a place where we could stay for the night? Somewhere away from the riots. We will leave in the morning for Altihex.::  _

 

_ ::Be better if we get goin’ again then. Dontcher worry Moms. I gotta plan.:: _

Radar positively skipped behind the guard, entirely pleased with meeting Megatron. The mech was every bit as impressive as his reputation. Their silent guide brought them to a roughly hewn doorframe, opening it to reveal the empty, sprawling landscape beyond Tarn’s mountain range. Smokestack already awaited them in his altmode, pulling Momus’ living cart along.

Radar transformed right away to alight on his conjunx.

“Chariot’s ready sir!” he called, mockery in his voice which lacked the usual spite for Momus. If Megatron was impressed and pleased with the mech, he could be worth something more than contempt. 

 

“Then hurry it up, slave” he retorted, hopping into his cart, “The help work, not talk!”

Once he was sealed inside his living cart, Momus addressed the walls. “Your ‘junx is a lil’ menace. Hope you’re proud o’ him.” He would leave Megatron’s comm for Radar to divulge. It was his gift to grant.

“Are we not stopping for recharge?”

 

_ ::No. We have to leave Tarn. I don’t know how much you saw, but there’s nowhere safe in the city tonight. I’m not putting you at risk.:: _

Smokestack’s comm was devoid of his accent, and it was fully intentional that he didn’t speak, just began to speed off across the wastes. He was built for endurance and horrendous weather conditions. A little lack of recharge wouldn’t do him in.

_ ::He’s worried about you. The big sap. He cares too much, I say.:: _

Radar’s comm pushed in, competing for attention.

 

“Thank you,” Momus said, touched, “That’s very kind of you.”

_ ::Radar, keep this strictly low-key. How much is left in the money I gave you? Be honest, I have a plan.:: _

 

_ ::You paid us. It’s our money now. Why?:: _

Radar managed to sound suspicious without his voice too. If Momus thought he could pull back out of their deal just because he was with the Decepticons now didn’t mean he was getting a free ride to Altihex. Which was a long, long way off.

 

_ ::Stop being such a suspicious sneak, you sneak,::  _ Momus rolled his optics,  _ ::I wannt know so I can give you  _ **_more_ ** _ , glitch. You and Smokes did something real rare. I appreciate it, I really, really do. Things are heating up now, the Decepticons are gaining speed. Why not a –  a vacation together, before you start fighting the good fight? My treat.:: _

 

Radar stubbornly refused to be suspicious, because it had kept him alive so far on his own, difficult path in the world.

But a vacation wasn’t something to sneer at, was it? Primus knew, Smokestack needed it. The stupid idiot, running himself dry because of his stupid friendship with a stupid senator.

_ ::I got it covered. We ain’t that poor. I know he needs a big break, he’s not recharged since we left Helex. Smokestack is your friend. You don’t have to pay him for that. Ugh. Throw your money at some mecha that need new plating or something, got it? We got your back, we’re on the same side. You fancy glitch.:: _

 

_ ::You’re a damn stubborn mech. Fine. But don’t ever hesitate to call me if you need anything. I mean it. I want to see you two happy and together once all of this ends. Smokes is a good drinking partner.:: _

Momus cut the comm off, before Radar inevitably sent him something snarky back. It was getting late, but he was too tired to do much. Talking to Sherma could wait a few hours of recharge.

Momus snuggled up on the small cot in the cart, soon sleeping.


	14. Chapter 14

Altihex had done him a world of good. Mostly after Momus contacted him. Having the ocean near had given Sherma a sense of peace and distance that he'd been missing sorely. Down here in the blue depths, he could forget about the constant frustrations of the senate. He could forget about the overhaul, about mark sixty-three, about every time he'd tried to do his job as he understood it. Failure. His life was full of it.

Sherma didn't know what gave him the strength to persevere. It had been resignation, or so he'd been convinced for a long time. Patience, maybe. Like water. Like an ocean, that carves away at stone until it forges a path.

Sherma wished he could be like that, but reality saw him as an useless extension to a corrupt system. The Grand Imperium was a puppet theater, and Proteus was tugging at the strings. Sherma had once believed Momus, spirited, wonderfully bright Momus, could cut them. Now he knew that it wasn't possible. 

Altihex had been very good to him, but it didn't last. His vacation had been intended to span the entire duration of Momus' journey. So they could spend time apart, which they dourly needed, no matter how much they missed one another. It was time to think.

Sherma began to look and really see what the state of the lower castes was. He took tours of parts of Altihex that he'd never been to. And it was worse than he expected, even in his home, where he'd fought to make the divisions mild. Altihex didn't have mines, just oil pumping works and drills and the mecha who lived in the sub-aquatic habs were in pitiful conditions.

Even under his own nasal ridge, Sherma didn't make a difference.

When the senate was called into an emergency meeting following an attack on Nominus, Sherma had gone back to iacon with extreme reservation. He wished Momus was there, to discuss what possible waves this could make and how ridiculous Proteus' reaction would be. It was convenient, wasn't it, a terrorist attack just as Proteus had suggested a form of clampdown on the rumored Decepticon movement.

_ So convenient. _

Sherma didn't believe in coincidences anymore. Nor did he believe in the positive nature of having power, as he sat in his seat and watched Proteus cycle the others up into paranoia and fear. Those were always his best companions, the guiding lights for his influence over the entirety of the ruling body of Cybertron.

And then, the truth had exploded in form of Orion Pax, on the senate floor, fighting his way in and spitting Megatron's questions at them all.

Sherma had watched chaos erupt, and he'd been an island of calm. It felt good. Orion Pax said what Sherma never could. 

_ How do we get rid of you? _

That was something to consider, wasn't it?

Sherma sat in silence as everyone around him began to argue. A lively mess of ego, fear and mangled suspicions mashed together as the truly rotten core of Cybertron. Sherma watched them all, and said nothing. This was exactly what he'd warned them of. People, rising up because they could no longer bear the reality of oppression and poverty. People asking questions, people no longer believing in the power of the Senate as anything to look to.

Getting rid of the senate may just be the only way that they would ever not be in the way of progress. Sherma's thoughts cooled to a cynical, slow explosion of the room. That would free Cybertron, wouldn't it? Maybe total anarchy was better than this, he contemplated as the clampdown was under fire and Proteus still managed to finish the session with power in his greedy servos, with Sentinel the ever-present reminder at his side. Prime. What a completely superficial title....

Sherma didn't stay in Iacon, once the Grand Imperium released its precious contents back out into the world. He had enough of Iacon's pomp and poison, he missed the rough winds of the ocean and the burning taste of Molten.

Besides, he had a date to prepare.

It was easy, to drown himself in ignorance. What could he do? Nothing. It may not feel right, and it may not feel good, but it was his only course of action. Nothing he did in the senate mattered. Why do anything at all.

_ ::Momus, you missed a momentous meeting today.:: _

No answer. That was alright. Usually, his dear Helexian was late, composing cheeky replies and inappropriate conduct for mecha of their rank. It was nothing to worry about.

Sherma leaned back, letting his helm rest against the side of his transport, already back on the way to Altihex. Iacon's night-lights flickered beyond the thick glass, sparkling with an innocence that hid the rotten, stinking spark of the city.

_ ::Proteus looked downright flabbergasted. I should have taken a picture, really.:: _

A sip of high-grade, and his datapad on his lap. He opened up a map of Altihex, plotting over the route for their first tour together of his home. They'd start in his home, one of the most impressive buildings in the entire city, central in the island with plenty of subaquatic levels. He'd like to see what Momus thought about being entirely encased by water. Maybe they'd dive out together, if Momus felt brave.

_ ::I missed your commentary, dear. You would have laughed, I'm sure.:: _

Then, to the floating oil-houses and buff station. Sherma was sure Momus would have something to say about the pleasure houses and he'd find it ridiculous and they would watch the light dance on the white steel of Altihex' highest towers across the water.

Then, maybe another swim, to the private beach that Sherma owned, which was only mildly infested with Momesian Sludge-Crawlers. They'd take some Molten along of course, and then...be alone together. Sherma tingled with anticipation.

He glanced to his comm. His messages were sent, unread, unanswered. It was...strange.

A ping came in, alerting him of recent news. He flicked on the holo and was greeted by a view of fire and carnage and a frantic reporter, babbling something about riots. The headline shed more light on the situations.

Riots in Tarn?

**Tarn.**

That's where Momus was headed. That's probably where he was _ right  _ now.

The beautiful island view fell right out of Sherma's mind, worry instead permeating his entire system.

_ ::Momus? Could you please answer me?:: _

Nothing. But his signal wasn't offline. At the very least, that gave him something to cling to. The fact that the Helexian wasn’t answering however still gave him horror visions of Momus hurt, Momus in pain, being held somewhere against his will.

_ ::Momus. Tell me where you are.:: _

_ ::This isn't funny. I don't care what you're doing, you answer me this instant!:: _

He was going to beat that mech until he was more dents than plating. He waited, growing more anxious as he watched the destruction in the streets of Tarn.

Sherma activated a forced voice connection. It was rude, but not uncalled for.

"MOMUS!"

 

Oh, who set  _ that  _ alarm?

Momus reached out to slap it away, uttering a groan. “Nnnngh,” he said, rolling over on his cot to try and catch a little more recharge. He didn’t  _ want  _ to get up, he was a senator!

Fraggin’ Radar, probably. Thought it’d be funny to wake him up at the aftcrack of dawn by shrieking in his audial. “Go ‘ _ way _ , ‘m  _ rechargin _ ’.”

 

“Momus!” Sherma breathed a deep sigh of relief. Recharging? The little glitch. Sherma had been worried about him, and he didn’t even bother to send a message that he wouldn’t be making their nightly call?

“You wake up right now, mech, or your frame is never going to make it to Altihex. Where are you? What happened? Are you safe?”

 

Words. He was hearing words. “Night.” Bye, bye, words.

He clicked his comm off and rolled over to sleep.

 

-x-

 

It was about another three hours later before Momus woke up and realized what he’d done. He scrolled through his comms, and couldn’t help but smile. A flick of his finger brought up the voice chat.

“Lover? Sherma? You there?”

 

Sherma was sorely, sorely tempted to cut him off right there. He’d been worried sick and Momus had the gall to go to recharge with him in his audials. The only mercy had been the fact that he had said anything at all, which meant that he was safe enough to recharge. 

Sherma settled the childish part of him to a side. This was not the time to be taking on minor grudges. Too much had happened for them not to talk.

“You’re a beast, and I hope you know that. Where are you? I can’t trace your signal at all.”

 

“A beast in the berth,” Momus said, just because it was  _ there _ . “I’m out…”

Hm. He actually didn’t know where he was.

“Presumably being smuggled into Altihex, I hope. I’m not sure. My ride might be sweet-talking his ‘junx and I don’t want to get in the middle of that. The ‘junx might shoot me.”

Momus snapped a picture of himself, bleary, dark grey and dull white, and still rolled up in his tarp, before sending it to Sherma. “See? Was recharging when you called. I had a busy day, met with revolutionists, watched a city get set on fire. Very exciting.”

 

“What happened to your plating?” Sherma didn’t sound in the least sympathetic, and he wouldn’t be until he had Momus in front of him. His own transport had left Iacon behind, moving along the highway to Altihex. It would be a fairly long journey, in comfort. That was more than he could say for Momus, who looked kind of beat. And dirty. Like a miner.

“You’re not the only one living through some excitement, I can tell you that. I’m just on my way back to Altihex too. There was an emergency meeting. And a terrorist attack. And someone told the senate so much damned truth I wanted to shed coolant. I didn’t.”

 

“I went to Tarn to attend a Decepticon rally. Can’t exactly walk with my senatorial paint on no, can I? So I went to a bodyshop and got some temp-sprays. Pretty close to what I looked like, back in Thymesis. Like it?”

Momus clicked for the video call option. There Sherma was, looking perfectly normal and safe. Momus waved at him from his berth. “I met with Megatron. Nice fellow, quite polite. Tell me your story first.”

 

Sherma didn’t have time to make sure he wasn’t looking terrible or dusty or anything and he scolded Momus mentally for his lack of manners, but seeing him soothed the instant outrage away. Then, he processed Momus’ words. His optics went wide, mouth slackening a little.

“You... _ met  _ with Megatron?” How. How did Momus achieve these impossible things and still manage to be a cheeky former miner with a dirty mind, Sherma would never know. 

He leaned back, stroking his helm and trying to find some composure.

“Well...when you put it that way, I think you may have had the more exciting time. Nominus was attacked. Almost died, actually. Proteus is downright  _ torn apart  _ about it.” Sherma rolled his optics, knowing Momus would understand the implication.

“But that wasn’t the most interesting part of the meeting, believe it or not. So we’re just about to discuss a vote on the ‘decepticon clampdown’ and Decimus is all up in arms about how this ought to be top priority, when an enforcer bursts in, with this mech slung over his shoulder. Orion Pax, bellowing about how useless and corrupt the senate’s become. He looked rough, like he punched his way in, and he must have. But he got to say his piece. Even quoted  _ his friend Megatron’s _ famous three questions for an Institution of power. It was pandemonium in there, I can tell you that.”

 

“We are really living in interesting times, aren’t we? I remember the three questions. Concise stuff. Too bad Nominus didn’t kick the bucket, but that’s something else. I’m sure this Pax fellow really got up Proteus’ pipes. What about you? What’d you think of it?”

Aww, Sherma had the  _ cutest  _ look on his face. It was partly flustered, partly shocked, and all painfully genuine Sherma-ness. Momus smiled at him, snuggling deeper into his tarps as his optics roved all over Sherma’s features.

 

“Me? I couldn’t help but agree with him. I’ve been harping on for over ten years that we couldn’t squeeze the lower castes as we’ve been doing, and it made no difference. Maybe I should have punched my way in with a mech slung over my shoulder,” Sherma mustered his servo and arm. He’d never look as impressive as Orion Pax. He just wasn’t built for combat. He smiled, a little sadly at the screen.

“It’s a real shame it won’t help. But it makes me think, my dear. It made me think some rather...unsavoury thoughts. About how much better it would be if it all burned down. All of it. The senate. The institutes...I’m so tired of this status quo. Nothing will wake those mecha up.”

 

“Nothing but war?” Momus’ audials pricked up. “You said that Pax fellow repeated what Megatron was saying.  _ Megatron _ . You’ve read  _ Towards Peace _ . You told me you didn’t think burning it all down was the right way. Have you changed your mind on that now?”

Sherma was fussing about on the other side. Whatever he was doing, it was  _ adorable _ .

 

“I don’t know where my mind is at, except with you,” Sherma focused on the screen again, finding comfort in Momus’ face, his optics, everything about him. He was the only thing still right with the world, really. And Sherma couldn’t be happier that they weren’t parted permanently, that their relationship had survived its pitfall.

“I don’t know what it will take. Megatron speaks of peace, yet I can assume that the riots in Tarn last night were a product of the rally you went to. I don’t know what we can do. What I can do. I can’t even protect Altihex from Decimus’ greedy little fingers. He’s been siphoning from our oil trade for years. Hm. I found that out from mecha on the drill platform. Did you know, I’ve never been there before I met you. I never talked to the workers there, and they didn’t...they didn’t even hold it against me.” Sherma’s face lit up again, the fond memory one of his dearest and recent, “they knew about some of my proposals, even. Said I was doing a well and good job. Momus, they read about the overhaul. I didn’t even know it was circulated outside of the senate.”

 

“We wouldn’t have to deal with this, if we cleaned house for good. Remove the Senate from power, empower the low castes, equalize our society. No more watching failed proposals get thrown out for inconveniencing someone’s power base.”

Momus propped himself onto his elbow, adjusting his comm. His tarp fell away, revealing more of his darker chassis and the Senate badge that faintly glowed among the sea of dark colors. “Aren’t you  _ tired  _ of it, Sherma? About hearing all the stories, all the times the people who should’ve protected the ones under them instead exploited them, used them, and threw them _ away _ .”

His expression was painfully earnest. “Yes, that rally was what caused the riots. I bet the news outlets didn’t tell you only the high caste area of Tarn got sacked, or that the main targets were the big corporations and government buildings. The corrupt mecha were dragged out and beaten. For that, the rioters were  _ killed _ .”

 

Sherma pulled a face, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. So now, Sentinel had made killing a casual convenience for his forces. It was a wonder they didn’t have a parade of enforcers in the Grand Imperium earlier.

“Of course I’m tired of it. But what can we do except not actively participate? Of course I voted no for the clampdown. Do you want to know how many senators voted yes before Orion Pax showed up? It was fifty-seven no’s and two hundred and sixteen yes’s, Momus. After Pax, we’ve postponed the motion, but still. Even if we dig in and say no, we’ll be bowled over. If we try to do anything, we’ll be ignored. What can we do?”

Sherma contemplated retirement to Altihex, and to stay on his beach. Maybe have a little hab-suite built there, with Momus for company. He looked back at his friend, his beloved.

“Do we step back? What do we do, Momus, dear?”

 

“I’ve chosen to fight. I talked with Megatron, told him I wanted to help his cause. I’m his optics and audials on the Senate. Not quite a Decepticon but… close enough.” Momus looked at Sherma calmly. “We could run from it. With our money, we might even get far enough to be out of the way. Retire in some small city, maybe have some power over it with the city council or some such. Let it all blow over. It would be safer, simpler.”

Momus averted his gaze from the screen. “But I can’t do that. This is personal, Sherma. This is about  _ my  _ caste, about the miners I called my friends, about everyone who was crushed because of what their alt-mode is. I refuse to be the one who walked away. Everyone who sees me believes that I turned my back on them when I became alt-mode exempt. I refuse to give them justification.”

“I won’t force you to join me, lover. But I will ask you. You’ve seen it. There is no other way. It’s all too big and complicated for meaningful change to take place without  _ some  _ violence along the way.”

 

It was exactly what Sherma expected out of Momus, and exactly the kind of pin to burst the bubble of an island retreat and a long, happy age together. Sherma watched Momus, listened to his voice. No matter flippant or cheeky or witty the mech was, the deep honesty in him ran to the core and came back up and demanded he do something productive with his lucky life.

Sherma wouldn’t weigh him down. Never. He’d carry this mech on his shoulders if he had to.

“I’m with you, my love,” oh, his spark swirled hard at that, but it was necessary. His voice only shook for a moment, before he gathered it up into the cradle of his self-control, “Momus and Sherma, we’re a team.”

 

“I –  I…” Momus stammered, trying to find a way to requite that without actually  _ repeating  _ it. “...I care about you too,” he managed lamely. His voice grew a little more determined, “Really, Sherma, I mean it. I’m not ready with the whole…  _ love  _ business, but I care for you, a lot. Don’t ever doubt that. For better or for worse, like it or not, we’re a team.”

He swallowed thickly. “I’m glad you would do this with me,” he said, softer, “I… know it isn’t the same for you. I’m asking you to sacrifice a lot of things for this, for me. That’s kinda what I do, isn’t it? I drag you along with my crazy plans.”

 

“Give me some credit, Momus. I have some plans of my own,” Sherma wanted to be closer, but he couldn’t really press his face into the screen, that would look utterly ridiculous.

“And besides. I may do this with you, but it isn’t just for you. Every single mech out there could have been you. Every miner that dies in a cave-in, that is stripped of function, has to beg or crawl or die, every single one of them could have been you. And I cannot stand to live in a world where that is allowed. So as much as it may not be the same for me, Momus, don’t doubt that I too believe in striving towards equality. Peace. Everyone deserves it.” 

 

“We live in a fragged up world, lover, and we’re the ones who can see it all unfold. Why not cut the strings and let the curtains fall down for good? For me. For you. For us.”

He laid down, pressing his hand to the screen. “For everyone in this world. Gods above and below, you always make me realize that miracles  _ do  _ exist. An intellectual high caste senator, with feelings, empathy, and honesty? I should just parade you around everywhere, as an example of what we should aspire to be.”

 

“Don’t be absurd, Momus. I’m not a prime example of a model society,” Sherma wanted to grasp that hand and kiss each joint on each finger, then wrap Momus into his arms. The world was beginning a wildfire and he had no idea how they could keep anything safe. Well. Perhaps not a wildfire, but a riptide. In which case, going with current, not swimming against it would be their wisest course of action.

“I have flaws. Others have...more dangerous flaws. There’s only mecha in this world, not monsters. Even Proteus has some sort of fragging logic behind his ideas.”

Selfish, awful and harmful logic, but logic nonetheless.

 

“Ew, are you talking about Proteus? I think my desire to ‘face you just dropped to nil.” Momus wrinkled his nasal ridge, lip curling comically. Soon after, his expression relaxed and he winked. “Forget him. I miss you. Seriously. I just wish I could’ve dragged you along so I could’ve shown you the three uglies, Thymesis, all the down and dirty places I went around. An’ you would’ve been treated t’ some quality Helexian accen’ an’ slang, lover, it’d have been a grand ol’ venture for th’ two of us.”

Momus sighed, sobering up. He was doing that a lot, these days. “You have flaws. I feel like mine may be bigger than yours.”

 

“Momus, I’ve never heard you doubt yourself, and I don’t want to start now,” Sherma traced the outside of the projection, as if it could help him touch Momus and bring him to his side. Primus, why did they take such stupidly long journeys to be apart?

“Your only flaw is that you care so much that it hurts, our predicament. Being powerless, I mean. And honey, if that’s all you got, ya just peachy wit me mon.”

It was awful and he immediately felt flustered with embarrassment but maybe his terrible home-city accent would cheer Momus out of his somber mood.

 

“What was  _ that _ ?” Momus’ whole expression lit up, his impending self-evaluation left behind for his reaction to  _ that  _ instead. “What  _ was  _ that? You  _ said  _ something, but that was a –  that was… is that what an Altihexan sounds like?  _ Do it again _ .”

He wiggled out of his tarp, audials now fully raised and pointed towards Sherma. “You’ve heard my awful accent, you  _ have  _ to do yours again.”

 

“It sounds awful, doesn’t it,” Sherma actually flushed, faceplate tinted from the excess heat, but he laughed it off. With Momus, he could embarrass himself. He’d told him, a long time ago, to embrace where he came from and this was him trying.

“Do what again? Talk like that? You’ll hear plenty of Altihexan soon. Mon. Stick wit me an ya hear it erry day.”

 

“It’s absolutely  _ horrible _ , I love it,” Momus kissed the screen lightly, a grin alighting on his face, “That’s it, new decree. When we ‘face, that’s how you have to talk. No other way. Gimme that sweet Altihexan loving’.”

With that, his grimness finally broke and he bent double, laughing. 

 

“You’re a walking disaster, has anyone ever told you that?” Sherma huffed, absolutely not on board with that idea. It was bizarre, how easily the two of them could find something about each that distracted them from the slagpile that was Cybertron and their professions. It was amazing and maddening and Sherma felt his spark ache adoration, with love. As long as he had Momus, nothing was too dire to face down.

“And by the way, an Altihexan lovin’ is a booster orgy on the beach, so don’t ever say that in my home without being prepared for the consequences.”

 

“I am going to  _ yell  _ that on the most crowded beach I can find. It’ll be all over the news:  _ Senator Momus starts Altihex beach orgy; Nobody is surprised _ .” Momus’ laughter stopped, though he was still venting a little harder. He did his best to flicker his optics flirtatiously –  it looked like they were malfunctioning, honestly. “Would the dear Senator Sherma join Momus in said orgy?”

He pursed his lips, and made kissy faces at the screen. It was dumb, it was ridiculous, and it was exactly what he needed. “Tell me more about this Altihexan cultural statements that start such illicit activities. Is there one for  _ Oooh, sir, choke me _ ?”

 

“Absolutely not!” Sherma slapped the screen lightly, shaking his helm. He’d take Momus goofing around on any day over Momus doubting himself and contemplating hopelessness.

“Do you think you’ll have a minute of spare time for local interfacing culture, senator Momus?” Now Sherma was ready to play. He was in a transport, bound for home, with no more company than his datapads, so Momus being there...well, he’d prolong it by any means necessary.

“I have so much planned for you, I made a  _ schedule _ . It’s airtight, my  _ dear _ .” Never had there been more threat in a seductively voiced comment about time-keeping.

 

“You  _ scheduled  _ our ‘facing time? Do I have a time limit on overloads? Do we have deadlines for how long I’m allowed to have transfluid in me?” That was just so  _ Sherma _ of him. Next he was going to tell Momus he reserved everything a month ahead, for the next  _ year  _ or something similar.

“Alright, hotshot, since we’re apparently going down  _ this  _ hole,” cue a leer, “let’s expand on it. Remember what I said about collars and cuffs? I want you to buy a set for me. Padded on the inside, should be easy break-out, not likely to snap, and match my colors.”

 

“Ah. Here comes the deviant,” Sherma grinned. Momus had no idea what was in store for him. It wasn’t all interfacing, but it certainly featured heavily in the plans that he had for the two of them.

“Collars and cuffs. Alright. I hope you have some experience in static link ropes, dear,” because Sherma was not as drab as the world liked to believe.

“I miss..touching you. I want to hold you right now.” Sherma sighed wistfully. Thousands of miles, even though Momus was right here on a screen.

 

“We can get you a pillow of me made. When I am gone, you can hug the body pillow shaped like me and think about my warm, warm array.” Momus was utterly unapologetic. “Stroke my ego, lover, I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever self-serviced while thinking of me?”

This… new direction of an old game –  Momus asking questions, Sherma offering new insights –  was different. Braver. They toed the line of their… relationship, ignoring the fragged up world and the awkwardness of Momus’ not-quite feelings, by joking and talking about crudity. If that crudity was also beneficial to Momus’ time on Altihex, well… all the better.

 

“You would ask me that, wouldn't you?” Sherma reclined, dimming his optics as he brought up a slew of memories of him doing exactly that. Touching himself, moaning for Momus, overloading desperately and alone.

“Fine. Because you value so much of my honesty. I have. A lot. With recordings of your voice in my audial. I'm not proud of it...I should have better control of myself, but Primus, did it feel good.”

 

And stroke his ego he did. Momus listened avidly, optics bright as he tried to picture just  _ when  _ exactly this had been happening right under his nasal ridge. “With my  _ voice  _ included?” he asked, incredulous. It was one thing to merely fantasize over a construct over the mind. It was another to add a depth of reality like his own  _ voice _ .

“Which conversations?” Momus inquired, wondering which ones he’d had with Sherma over the years was deemed worthy of self-servicing to. “And how?”

 

“What do you mean, how?” Sherma snapped, not inclined to share every last detail. It was humiliating enough that he’d done so in the first place. Could Momus not be content with just that?

“Mostly conversations that amused you. And when you flirted with me, which you did a lot. I noticed.”

He noticed, recorded, and shamefully overloaded to the sound of Momus casually calling him sweetspark and imagining it to mean much more than it did back then.

 

“There must have been a lot of laughter in those recordings.” Most mecha didn’t like that, right? “So you record some of our conversations. And here I thought was going to need to be a little concerned. You could be doing worse things with the things I say.”

“I still want to know the  _ how _ . As in, what did you do? How? What were your most common fantasies? Kinks? This is valuable research, we are going to put this in use once I get there.”

“This is also all information that makes me uncomfortable, in case you haven’t noticed.” Sherma sighed, adjusting so he could sit more comfortably and have Momus on the screen above him, looking down at his frame stretched out in his transport.

“The how should be fairly obvious, no? I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. Hands? They are quite useful. As are replica spikes and valves. I’ve made copious use of all of them for you. Thinking of you. Time I probably should have spent on proposals...it wasn’t like we spent a lot of time before recently. Every time I made it home to my habsuite, I had to take out an hour or two to work off what I was...feeling.”

“When did it start?”  _ Spike and valves _ . So Sherma was imagining both –  convenient. Didn’t sound like he’d done anything more complex than use a stand-in for Momus while self-servicing. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable but… I want to know. Wouldn’t you want to know too, if I told you I self-serviced regularly to you?”

Only when he got to his habsuite, or has he tried it in Momus’ home? “Have you, since we ‘faced?”

“...Yes.” Shamefully often, since they’d begun talking again. Beforehand, it had been a bitter sort of release, fraught with anger and desire and the need to return things to how they were. But ever since Momus accepted his emotions and more or less decided to do something about them, it had been a sweet treat. Decorated with messages and snippets of exactly that conversation.

“Not since I left Altihex though. Iacon without you is the pits.”

“You haven’t told when you started,” Momus said, who couldn’t help but nit-picking. He was  _ interested _ , all right? Sue him. This was fascinating. At least Sherma’s libido hadn’t died since the last time he’d been in Iacon. “I’m coming soon. We can find a way to ‘face on Proteus’ desk or something.”

Hah. Wouldn’t  _ that  _ be a grand revenge.

“Momus! That’s...” not that outlandish an idea. Proteus did have a lovely desk, always kept and perfect and awfully polished.

“Although I think he and Sentinel being on there puts me off of that entire venture.”

Should he tell Momus? It was the last hurdle, so to say, giving Momus free access to knowledge of how long exactly Sherma had built up this desire for him.

“...Do you remember when I kissed you, after our first vote? It was my uh, dirty little secret, then, but it only progressively got more intense.”

“But I offered to  _ ‘face  _ with you then,” Momus said, frowning, “I was sitting on your lap kissing you, and  _ you  _ were the one to shoot me down and tell me that it was merely  _ you showing your appreciation _ .”

Momus shook his helm. “Maybe if you’d just accepted then, we could’ve been doing a regular thing far earlier. Why are you so  _ stubborn  _ about stuff like this, I’ll never know. You probably would’ve gone to your grave with this secret if I hadn’t forced you to confess.”

He was annoyed, because there was no way he was getting fond of Sherma. This was a  _ bad  _ habit, one he wouldn’t indulge by thinking it was kind of cute, in a headstrong Sherma way.

“I didn’t want us to become casual acquaintances that interface just for fun, Momus. And...it was too early to tell what my emotions even meant, let alone tell you. I didn’t think you were interested and so I thought it better not to tell you anything at all.”

Sherma would persist in his opinion. He knew Momus a lot better now, and he still doubted the mech would have just accepted his feelings and moved on. Or try for something together.

“I remember your reaction when I told you I was fond of romance and notion of having a conjunx. You nearly purged.”

“That’s when I didn’t know,” Momus persisted stubbornly, “You can’t tell me what might’ve happened if I’d known that you were imagining romancing  _ me _ . I thought I was the farthest thing from your type, even.”

Still, Sherma wasn’t entirely wrong. Would Momus have consented to the idea of romance, if he and Sherma had started out casually ‘facing? Probably not. He would argued about losing a good thing, and end up inadvertently hurting his friend even more. He decided to steer away from this topic; it was rife with too many potential mistakes. 

“Will you self-service after this conversation?” he asked instead, optics glowing cheekily.

“I’m in my transport, Momus.” 

To Sherma, that was reason enough not to. Besides, this conversation had begun with his ire directed at his beloved, since he’d been an ignorant snob and ignored his worried messages.

“That’s a no, in case you needed a translation for that.”

“Aw, lover, be a little adventurous,” Momus egged, “Okay, then how about once you get to your hab? What about then?” 

“That’ll be in the morning. I have to present Altihex’ contribution to the energon crisis,” Sherma knew how to take the sex appeal out of any conversation. It was a talent.

“In the  _ morning _ ,” Don’t underestimate Momus’ sheer dogged stubbornness. Can’t distract him  _ now _ , Sherma. “I could call, then. And while you’re…” he made a gesture that would’ve been scandalous in public, “we could talk. Since you already listen to me, anyway.”

“I’m going to cut this transmission if you keep on this path, Momus,” Sherma threatened, hand on his faceplate. It was warm and uncomfortable and Momus was entirely too far away to make good on anything more than wordy promises of debauchery.

“What about the meeting with Megatron? The Nominus bombing? Everything else. Can we just...not talk about my self-servicing habits anymore?”

“I don’t want to talk about those, we’ll be discussing them everyday anyway. I’d much rather talk about what fun things you’re getting up to. Come on. I’d show  _ you  _ how I self-service if you asked.  _ Please _ ?”

“Is that what you’re asking me right now?” Sherma peered through his fingers, trying to see if Momus really intended to pursue this path. There was no way Sherma would be that lewd, doing that in front of the other mech. 

“Absolutely,” Momus nodded vigorously, “I didn’t get to have a good look at your array the first time around, or even figure out what you like. I want to make it good for you, sweetspark. And that means I should know what you like. Which means I should watch you, at least once.”

It was true, though the dominating reason was actually  _ I just want to watch _ , but Sherma might actually die if he said that out loud.

“There’s no need to be shy. I know I liked what I felt, at least.”

“That’s not why...Momus, this is really...forward.” Bold. Lewd. Weird. Sherma couldn’t decide. Any of them would be enough of a red flag for him not to even consider following the request. But Momus wanted to...study. To make it good. That was effort, put forward for Sherma’s benefit. That was a sign, wasn’t it?

“If you laugh I will offline you. And none of that strange form of speaking that you like to point out in your holovids...dirty talking. None of that.”

Stubborn, patient. What happened to those qualities of his, under Momus’ cheery onslaught? They dissipated under a hint of pressure when it came to pleasing the mech he loved.

“If you’re too uncomfortable, we could switch to voice only. I won’t be able to see anything, but… progress, right?” He nodded eagerly for the rest of Sherma’s conditions. “I promise. Nothing that’ll put you off.”

Well. This was happening. Momus was already scrambling into a sitting position, field brimming with anticipation, optics glued to the screen where Sherma was looking like he wanted to crawl away. He couldn’t resist the coo, approving and affectionate.

“Will you… use toys?” he asked, “Would you, if I asked you to?”

“Momus...” Sherma squirmed. Embarrassing didn’t even cover this situation anymore. Now, he just wanted to slither away and try to forget he ever told the mech his foolish habits. But he was a fool, a fool in love, and his love was a lewd minded little critter.

“I suppose so. If you really wanted to see that. And there’s no sense turning off the video, I’m...I’d do this for you.”

And potentially his own pleasure, if he could even overload whilst being watched.

“So...tell me what to do. And I’ll do it to me, and try to think it’s you.”

“You said you had a replica spike  _ and  _ valve, right?”  _ Why not both, indeed.  _ “Use those. If you have choices, I want to see them first. And don’t try to hide anything from me, got it?”

He looked at Sherma, before a thought occurred. “Have you done something similar before with anyone?” Momus needed to gauge Sherma’s relative experience before he accidentally pushed him into the deep end.

“I didn’t say I had those with me,” Sherma pointed out, although against his better judgement, he actually did. In a compartment in his transport, like a deprived addict. He hadn’t dared to carry them around in his subspace. What if he would have been searched? Highly, highly unlikely, but he definitely didn’t want to empty his subspace with that kind of content.

“No one. I’ve only had very brief, mutually beneficial dalliances.”

Did Momus do this before? He seemed fairly certain of what he wanted, so maybe that was a yes.

“You can wait until you do,” Momus said, shrugging a shoulder, “this isn’t time sensitive. You could call me again, once you get to your hab, and then we could start.”

A grin, leery and wide, spread across his face. “Or you can use the time-honored tradition of one’s own digits.” He wiggled his own, for emphasis. “Careful now, sweetspark, spending time in my company will ruin you for other mecha.” Such an arrogant boast. Momus cackled at the notion.

“I’d say you’ve already successfully completed that venture.”

Sherma sighed. He might never call Momus for this purpose. Even in the privacy of his hab in Altihex, he would feel uncomfortable performing for an audience. He’d never thought of himself as overly attractive. Sure, he had good angles. But nothing stellar and out there. Certainly nothing close to a revver, who would show this kind of thing for a few shanix in nearly every city across Cybertron. They were usually quite beautiful mecha, some even upper caste since it wasn’t a full profession.

Anyway. Sherma had only seen one once or twice and their performance had been captivating and he absolutely couldn’t reproduce that kind of seductive confidence.

“Alright.”

Momus had promised not to laugh. If he so much as grinned, Sherma would cut the feed.

The soft snick of his released panel was unbearably loud in the transport. Sherma placed his hands over it, mostly, as the array was exposed.

His audials tilted up. “I heard that,” Momus said, craning his helm though it showed him nothing. “Angle the screen down, sweetspark. As lovely as your face is, I wanna see a bit further south.” 

He tried to imagine what it might look like. Sherma wasn’t the sort to get mods, or any fancy deco. Would it be a simple green, or white? Or did he splurge here, just a little. Momus cursed that hurriedness of the first time –  he hadn’t gotten the chance to see  _ anything  _ properly.

“Right,” Sherma adjusted the screen, the view wobbling until it focused on the area below his boxy torso. His array was still mostly covered by his hands, but through the thick green digits, orange plating and silver detailing was poorly visible in the light of the transport. It’s not like Sherma wanted to turn a spotlight to his crotch,  _ thank you very much _ .

His spike was nothing to be ashamed of and it was probably the most clearly visible thing. Besides, Momus had gotten a good feel of it before, hadn’t he? Mostly silver and veined with orange lines, it was plain, decently sized, nothing to sneer at and nothing to make paintings of.

His valve though was not so simple. Along with an additional cover, separate from the primary panel, Sherma’s valve mesh was for lack of better word, plush. Even the exterior was lined with a soft, mint-green extra thick layer of mesh, the anterior node nestled deeply and glowing a gentle, amiable white.

“Is this better?”

“Are those mods?” Momus’ optics widened, his mouth falling into a little  _ O  _ of surprise. It looked so  _ soft _ . He wished he could reach through the screen and touch it, play with it. “Definitely better. You look nice. I like it.”

He looked back up, tearing his gaze away from Sherma’s array reluctantly. “I’m going to enjoy putting my mouth on you,” he promised. “Now, move your hands. Touch yourself.”

“They’re...nevermind.” Sherma could explain the nature of his insulation linings at some other point. Momus seemed to like it, and that was all that mattered. 

Slowly, the dark green of his digits slid over the valve exterior, drawing no sound yet as Sherma concentrated. A little bit too much. Usually, he’d just think of Momus until he was squirming, then open up and make use of the fake spike. Going slow and for show was difficult. Was he supposed to spread and moan? 

One finger trailed over the lining, the valve, and lingered on the anterior node, which flared instantly at the soft pressure.

“Could you just...talk? I kind of...need to hear you to get this going.”

“Is there anything you want me to say? Things I should avoid, aside from laughing and dirty talk?” Momus picked up on Sherma’s hesitance, and his expression gentled. “It’s okay if you can’t, sweetspark. We’ve got all the time we need, you don’t to rush on my account. I’m not asking you to put on a show, either. This is about  _ you _ .”

_ Talking _ ? So did that mean his talking turned Sherma on, or that confirmation of his presence did? Momus couldn’t quite decide, and Sherma was a bit too busy to clarify. “Did you… listen to me a lot, while self-servicing?”

“To your voice, yes. Your words, not so much.” Sherma thought this was about Momus, studying his likes and dislikes, rather than Sherma having an opportunity to just self-service with a live feed.

He looked at the screen. Really stared at it. Momus...would he ever even think of him in such a way if Sherma hadn’t been the fool to freak out after their interface? He wanted to know, but he was too afraid of the truth to ask. 

“It’s...do I have to explain this in detail? Momus, your voice...when you call me sweetspark...it does things to me. I always felt like a lech, getting warm over a term of endearment you use for everyone.” He chuckled softly, visibly relaxing as he distracted by talking more of his shameful, secret crush turned vastly deep emotional attachment.

“Do you remember that one night where you just had to tell me about how you broke your new frame in? The details from that...were good provisions for a long time.”

Momus recalled all the times he’d ever called Sherma  _ sweetspark  _ in a slow motion montage. It was… long.

“Damn,” he finally said, unable to say anything else. “That’s… that’s a lot of pent-up charge right there. Is it only sweetspark, or do others work,  _ darling _ ?”

His whole practice of calling everyone around him sweetspark had been because of a simple fact: nicknames made people feel closer to you. Simple as that. He hadn’t thought it would ever be construed like  _ this _ , however. “It wouldn’t have been all that sexy if you watched it,” he said, “I was doing a lot of spreading and swearing. I kinked up a cable.”

“I could have helped you with that,” Sherma whispered, Momus’ animated conversation helping to ease his awkward tension. His fingers worked gently over his valve and the frequent brightening of his anterior node was starting to indicate results. Sherma’s vents flared a little, warm air rising in the cooled transport.

“It’s sweetspark, love, lover, anything you’ve called me. Primus, this sounds stupid out loud, doesn’t it? Like I am a doting fool who craves your affection on a stalker-level.” Sherma laughed at himself.

“If I ever get my factory seal back somehow, I’ll let you have the honors,” Momus said. His optics hovered on Sherma’s face long enough to give him a small, reassuring smile, before he was back to staring at his array again. The soft flickering of the anterior node was  _ fascinating _ .

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll give you your lil’ nickname. One only reserved for you, and no one else. Got that?”

“You will? Something used only for me?” Sherma visibly began to enjoy his own ministrations, optics dimmed and his finger parted the plush mesh. His vocalizer hitched and he breathed a moan of Momus’ designation.

“It’s a little pathetic. How attached I am to you. I sometimes wonder what you would have done, in my situation. Probably ‘faced me straight away, maybe.”

“If I’d been the one to fall in love? Why, I’d chase you up and down Cybertron, of course.” Momus settled back against the cart wall, hazily watching Sherma’s fingers dance across his valve. He could barely see beyond Sherma’s own fingers, but there was progress. The previous hesitation was dissipating, losing ground to lust. Momus’ vents quietly clicked on.

“I would have had my plan of attack –  we were already a team, so I would have an excuse to be close to you. I would have been jealous –  kept you away from others so your attention was only on me. I suppose that applies, even now.”

The green fingers dipped in past the plush lips, and a flush of heat trickled through Momus’ systems.

“Then I would’ve used every opportunity, every chance to touch you. Leave my paint on you. After I felt reasonably secure? I would have told you, and made sure everything I felt was requited. You know how I am, when I want something. Principle remains the same with people.”

Oh, Sherma would have liked that. His array lit up. The soft white light of his anterior node was joined by three others, each secluded at a different part of his valve.

“Momus...” Primus, he really, really would have liked that. For his beloved to chase him down, claim him, court him and jealously guard him as something, someone precious.

He slipped in more fingers, craving something deeper with the rising arousal coursing through his frame. It was a shame Momus couldn’t feel the wet warmth of him right now, because he’d probably have something filthy to say about it.

“Your paint on me...we’d look ridiculous in the Grand Imperium like that.”

“You say that like I care about what anyone in the Grand Imperium thinks of me, or us. Your bigger concerns would have been how to keep my hands off your chassis during the interlude. Or during the session, under the table. You would’ve been right sick of me after a year or so of being hounded.”

He shivered. He hadn’t expected to ever see the day he might hear his name come out like  _ that _ from  _ Sherma _ , of all possible people. Impossibility was more than just a word, for them. 

“You wouldn’t,” Sherma gasped, faking some outrage for the sake of their light-sparked conversation. This was much better than just fantasizing words into a specific order in Momus’ voice. This was real, Momus was watching, and he was starting to soak his fingers, lubricant dripping thickly through the soft, outer mesh.

“Really? Under the table? What if I overload in front of the entire assembly?”

“Well, then they’ll know who Senator Sherma of Altihex belongs to, won’t they?” Unconsciously, Momus glossa darted out to wet his lips as small drops of lubricant oozed out slowly, but surely. “I guess it still stands now, doesn’t it? Say my name, darling, and tell me you love me.”

Now, wasn’t that an easy request to fulfil? Sherma was really beginning to get into this, fingers working quickly but already feeling like they wouldn’t be enough. His other servo fumbled around for the hidden compartment in his transport.

“I do. I really, really do, dear,” Sherma found the latch and pulled it open impatiently, withdrawing a sturdy fake spike that just flashed by the screen without further attention.

“I really love you, Momus,” his fingers came out with a wet little pop, and the spike pressed into the soft mesh, slowly, slowly. Sherma was definitely not going to be any more patient than he’d already proven.

“Hold it,” Momus said, tone hardening just for this, “Now, what do we have here, darling? I do seem to recall you saying  _ I didn’t say I had any for this _ . And  _ yet _ .”

“Take that out, darling, and show it to me. Explain to me just why you have a replica spike, in your transport, at hand. Have you been a little filthier than you’d like to let on, hm?”

Sherma whined, withdrawing the spike with a woeful little tug. His calipers had cycled open and his fans were working. Clearly, their little experiment way paying off in spades.

He held the spike up. It was nothing special, but it was definitely gold and and white.

“I just...didn’t want you to know about it. And I needed to take it to Altihex, alright? There’s a perfectly legitimate reason outside of my...’filthy’ desires.”

“You even buy your toys to match my paint?” He didn’t contain the note of incredulity in his words. “That’s some  _ dedication _ , mech. Pray tell, what sort of  _ perfectly legitimate  _ reason you might have to be carrying a spike around, besides your needs.”

It was reasonably close in color, actually. Momus narrowed his optics. His shade of gold was supposed to be special to  _ him _ . “...did you use a sample of my paint to get that toy in that color, darling?”

“Will you be angry if I say yes?” Sherma turned his optics to the screen again, but Momus only looked amused, if a little suspicious, maybe surprised. All good things that wouldn’t ruin the mood of the moment.

“Is it...unnerving?”

That chilled Sherma’s frame several degrees. What if Momus found his creeping dedication unsettling? What if it put him in an even worse light in front of his Helexian love? Sherma’s optics onlined and his expression turned to full-blown worry.

Truth, or lie? “...a little, yeah,” Momus finally admitted after a frantic debate, “I’m not angry… just a little…”  _ weirded out. Creeped.  _ “...caught off guard.”

_ Change the topic, change the topic. _

“You didn’t tell me why you’re hauling a replica around, anyway.”

Slag. Sherma wanted to sink into the seat and die, because Momus’ reaction was the quickest arousal killer he’d ever lived through. He tilted the screen up, the worry remaining on his faceplate. Why...why hadn’t he just lied?

“I...” he could feel everything in him dry up, quite literally. Sherma’s optics dimmed with distress.

“I’m sorry Momus, I shouldn’t have. It’s, I....don’t have an excuse.”

“Wait, I didn’t tell you to stop,” Momus protested.  _ Kinda killed the mood, bucko _ , said a voice that he quashed. Sherma’s array disappeared, and his face –  anxious, upset –  was the focus once more. “You’re doing the thing where you make me feel guilty for something that’s not my fault.”

**_When_ ** _ did he get my paint? Are his replica valves gold? _

“Don’t you dare run away,” he said, pointing at the screen, “you can’t just drop a bombshell on me and then run off to sulk at the bottom of the ocean.” He felt like he’d stepped into a pool that’d been deeper than he’d expected. This was his frantic attempt to remain above the water.

Well, he could, that was the beauty of personal freedom and a very long distance between them, but Sherma remained in view, for now, for Momus’ sake. He felt guilty too, and filthy. For having stolen a paint sample, and for having the idiot idea of having his toys painted exclusively to match Momus.

Great. A month into their relationship, and already Sherma had managed to ruin any semblance of an intimate exchange. He just couldn’t seem to step right around Momus, always making a fool out of himself and losing his self-control when he should have an iron grasp of it.

Uncomfortable didn’t cut it anymore. This was painful now, shame burning itself into Sherma’s brain module.

“I’m sorry. It’s not on you. I...maybe I have an obsessive nature.”

_ Ah.  _

“I see,” Momus said, because his careful learning of behavior around high castes urged the need for a diplomatic reply in any situation. “Could I know more? Because, as the subject of your… obsession, I think I at least deserve a few answers.”

Diplomatic, diplomatic. Momus’ expression was wiped clean of judgment, holding only an expectant, patient stare.

“What color are the replica valves?” 

Sherma winced. This wasn’t a cute, odd little habit of his that Momus could grow to like. This was weird, and probably very unhealthy and buried inside of him.

“...Gold.”

_ Your gold. Because I only think of you. Years and years and all I think about is you.  _

“Kudos to you for accuracy.” Did he sound a little strained? Probably. It was one thing to know Sherma was harboring something for him –  he couldn’t help that. It was another to know he was carrying around ‘facing toys he intentionally made nearly identical to Momus’ array. That jumped  _ at least _ ten boundaries of privacy and decency, all in one go.

“When did you get my paint samples and how many of these replicas do you have?”

Sherma sighed, closing up his array and wiping his fingers off. He’d never gone from aroused to ashamed quite so quickly, but at least he wasn’t running away from the unpleasant consequence of telling Momus about it.

“After one of your parties. You streak on me a lot, in general...” it wasn’t an excuse and it definitely wasn’t permission, so Sherma tried to say it without any flippant intonation.

“And I have...three spikes, four valves.”

“They don’t happen to be entirely accurate to my frame, are they?”

_ Why do you have so MANY?! _

“I suppose I should start paying extra for the non-streak paint.” Simple. Passively accusatory.  _ Shame. Shaaaame.  _ “Is there anything else I should be warned of? Perhaps a full-body doll?”

“Don’t be ridiculous Momus.” Sherma snapped, although that was rich coming from the mech who just admitted to having multiple replicas just for the sake of pretending them to be Momus’ array. He was a travesty, really.

“I’m...I admit, it is a few...more than I should have, but I needed them. I needed them so I wouldn’t bother you. What would you have said if I just...befell you, in an interlude or at a party? It would have ruined everything between us.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Momus snapped back, “because regulating  _ your  _ sexual habits is not  _ my  _ obligation.”

He put his helm into his hand. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to ask you  _ one  _ more question, Sherma. Just one.”

“Do you actually love me, or are you just  _ obsessed _ with me?”

Sherma said nothing, staring at the screen, thunderstruck. How could Momus even begin to think...that? Regret and shame were becoming his constant companions, tucked into the corner of his mind at all times. He wanted to purge his tanks.

“How can you ask me that, Momus?”

How would he even know the difference? Sherma had never been in love before. He just assumed that his burning desire to be romantic with Momus was some kind of indication, and the exasperated fondness of the Helexian’s every action was proof.

But did he really, know if it was one thing or the other?

Sherma looked away, out of the window, watching the bright lights in the darkness.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

“The same way you can smuggle my paint off your own plating, and justify painting your replicas with it.”

Sherma was no longer looking at him. Momus’ playing was gone. He wasn’t happy. “Have you  _ ever _ loved anyone, Sherma?”

Momus cut the transmission off.


	15. Chapter 15

 

Sherma didn’t try to call him back. Not the following day, and not the day after that. A week passed, and finally, Altihex was in sight. Smokestack’s pace had slowed considerably, and it took a lot of Radar’s coaxing to have him cross the massive bridge that lead to the island city state before he transformed, only to collapse into a seat on the ground.

“Gotcher here safe, Moms.”

The trainformer watched his friend with exhaustion dimming his optics. Radar was already scuttling around for fuel and a recharge place that would be safe.

“Erhm...so...is yer fella gonna pick yer up?”

Altihex didn’t take notice of their arrival, continuing in the daily business. Smokestack had brought them in through the industrial city-gate, but they had a terrific view of the rest of the island , stretching out all around them. The ocean glittered blue, a few aquatics lazily crossing the waves. Some just rode the surf.

In the distance, an enormous tower climbed into the sky, white steel and glass and the focal point of the city. It was also, undoubtedly, the residence of the upper caste mecha in Altihex.

 

“Smokes, I want to ask a somewhat personal question. You and Radar have boundaries, yes?”

He stepped off the living cart gingerly, his arms hugging himself as he looked around. He plopped himself down next to Smokestack, a small grey miserable ball. Altihex’s beauty hardly dented his dark mood. Sherma hadn’t called back –  classic running away tactics. Momus had tried to call him, once his growing temper cooled, but to no avail.

 

Smokestack wouldn’t move even if the world started bursting into flames around him right now, field diffused and calming as always. He never did feel the need to be stressing himself. Things worked out. Maybe not in the way expected, but they worked out.

“Depends whatcher mean, Moms. What kinder boundaries?”

 

“Boundaries on… what’s allowed, and what’s not. Privacy, I guess.” Conjunxes couldn’t possibly share  _ everything  _ with each other. Everyone had a few secrets, at least, even a mech as honest as Smokestack. Momus shuffled closer, to let that calm field wash over his turbulent one.

“Er,” Smokestack extended his field, since he couldn’t go and just hold the senator until he felt better. He was very aware of social boundaries, especially because of his size.

“Well see, me ‘n Radar’s got a sparkbond, so there’s not much ta not share.”

And he loved every moment of it. Being with Radar gave him peace and focus and a content feeling that could never be matched by any amount of shanix or energon in the world.

“He usually flies off when he’s mad though, if that’s whatcher mean?”

 

“He –  I mean, my fellow –  he violated a very big privacy thing for me,” Momus said, trying to explain, “It’s been going on for a long time, and it only came out recently. It… disturbed me. A lot.”

He looked down at his hands. “Now we’re in Altihex and I don’t know what to do.”

 

The trainformer contemplated his words, before reaching out to Momus, resting two fingers on his shoulder instead of the heavy weight of his hand.

“Do yer wanta see ‘im, Moms? Yer fella? Or is it scary? Ta think of? Do yer think yer can forgive ‘im if it came ta that?”

 

“I don’t  _ know _ . I was fragging creeped to the Pits and back when I realized. The more I found out, the worse it was. I’m worried what this means for the  _ rest  _ of it, though. What if he does other… stuff? Worse stuff?”

 

“Worse stuff?” Smokestack leaned in closer, lowering his voice. His face was covered in thick layers of dust.

“Watcher thinkin’? Maybe he’s got yer sparklings’ named n’ planned out already or somethin’? Is that creepy?”

Because that would make Smokestack creepy and he’d rather know about it now and from Momus rather than from Radar.

 

“No, no, nothing like that. I mean… okay. Imagine you an’ Radar aren’t ‘junxes yet, but you’re hankering for ‘im. So you go an’ start fragging replicas of him. Like that. That worse.”

Momus cringed at his confession. It sounded even  _ worse _ .

 

“Oh,” Smokestack grinned awkwardly at that. It didn’t sound so wrong to him. Radar would have been the better half to speak to about this, since he had much more visible issues with attachment and emotions. Smokestack was a smitten train in love. He wished he had replicas he  _ could  _ frag, since the original was just as impossible to him.

“‘S better than other mecha, ain’ it? I mean. If Radar had a replica I’d be real impressed because, well,” he gestured to himself, all of his massive frame, “but I getcher. Yer didn’ get ta say nothin’ bout it and he done it without yer say so. S’a bit sick, yeah.”

 

“Right, right. That’s what I’m thinking. He’s still my friend, he’s still important to me but… I deserve to have some kind of  _ limits, _ yeah? Fantasies are fine. Feelings are fine. Hell, imaginin’ a replica valve’s me is fine. But he went beyond that, he  _ escalated _ . He can’t just go off an’ use his custom toys whenever he decides his spike needs a hole. How much worse can it get, that’s my damn question. What if I walk in our hab, one day, and I find a replica of  _ myself _ ?”

Momus spat. “That’s real rotten, that’s what it is. I wanna know if I ought to go yell at him some, or tell him to throw them all out. I don’ wanna be… be  _ idolized  _ like someone’s ‘facing icon. Ain’t his damn  _ object _ .”

 

“I can’ tell yer what’s right, Moms,” Smokestack leaned on him a little more, frame creaking as his heavy weight shifted more than intended. He really was exhausted, tanks dry, systems aching for rest. But at least Momus was here, and relatively safe, since this was his creepy sweetspark’s home, right?

“S’that where he lives?” He looked out over the island and his optics clung to the enormous tower scraping the skyline.

“S’fancy. But Moms, whatcher thinkin’? Yer should be tellin’ ‘im that, yeah? Mech can’t change for yer if yer don’t tell him watcher don’t like.”

 

Momus stayed quiet at that. He played with the dirt under him, thinking hard, before finally jolting into motion almost violently. “You’re tired,” he said, blue optics flinty, “an’ I’ve been a real cad, makin’ you sit here an’ listen to my damn woes again.”

“That there? That’s Transmoria Heights, like the Heights in Iacon. ‘S all fancy-like. An’ you two are gonna board with me, up  _ there _ .” He spat on the ground again. “It’s the damn least of what Sherma owes me.”

_ ::Radar,::  _ he barked,  _ ::Forget the hotels. We’ll be living it high in the Heights.:: _

He switched channels, Sherma’s smiling face lighting up next to the contact.  _ ::You.:: _

 

_ ::...?:: _

Sherma didn’t want to start another messaging chain. He hadn’t called Momus on purpose, he’d kept himself busy in stupid ways. And he was also currently charting the ocean floor, thank you very much. Not everyone was riding around on a pleasure cruise, Momus.

_ ::What do you want?:: _

 

_ ::I want your aft down here, out of the ocean, to pick me up and get rooms on your tower ready for three mecha. Then I want to you to be a damn mech and have a face-to-face conversation with me about whatever the hell we are.:: _

 

_ ::Go down to the Crescent beach behind the refinery. Don’t get lost.:: _

Sherma commed the coordinates, just in case Momus didn’t have optics in his helm and started his ascent. Slowly. The mech could wait. He also commed instructions to his staff at the tower, though there was always plenty of room. Altihex’ entire intellectual and scientific caste had room to live in that tower, if they wanted to. The top fifty floors were reserved for the senator though, at all times of year.

 

“I got you two rooms at Transmoria,” Momus said, distracted as he fumbled around with the coordinates. “Take the nicest one with a view, go swimming, drinking, whatever. I’m going to meet with Sherma. Thanks for taking me all the way here.”

_ ::Their designations are Radar and Smokestack, a flier and a trainformer. I expect them to be treated with the utmost courtesy and respect, and allowed all the utilities, and free roam of the tower. I’m going to the beach, you better not run away. Again.:: _

Momus was a mech on a mission. He gave Smokestack’s arm a brief hug, before nodding in the direction of the tower. “Go on. They’ll let you in, no questions asked.”

 

Smokestack didn’t go just yet, instead picking Momus up into a hug of his own, squeezing the smaller frame to the limit before releasing him.

“Yer take care, Moms. I’m sure yer’ll work things out with yer fella. Love’s a wonderful thing,” the trainformer transformed for one last trip to the massive tower, where he was sure to recharge for the next three days if not more. Radar would join him there, of course. He couldn’t leave his conjunx’ side unguarded.

“Thank yer. Come by anytime if yer need a drink.”

The train blew his horn before rumbling off at a sedate pace.

A sharp ping and message came in.

_ ::Next time pay us more.:: _

Radar was his ever-charming self, a dark speck in the sky, circling over where Smokestack rumbled through the streets.

 

_ ::I offered, you sneak, and you said no. Your fault.:: _

Momus watched Smokestack go, before slowly turning towards the refinery. He took a deep vent, before setting off in a brisk jog to the beach. He was dirty, unpolished, and still covered in the ugly temp-spray from Tarn. Frag it, Sherma would get what he got.

_ ::I’m here, where the frag are you?:: _

“Hey. Do you have any authorization to be here?”

Momus turned to someone who looked like security. He glared up at them. “My face is my authority,  _ frag off _ .”

 

The mech he’d snapped at looked absolutely mindblown for a second, before his optics brightened with anger. No, he had not seen the badge, or recognized the faceplate. And certainly, this dirty worker was giving him attitude that warranted disciplinary action.

“What did you just say to me?!” He unclipped a prod which sparked electricity at one end. If he had to teach this one manners, he may as well enjoy it.

“Strikeout, what are you doing?”

Another security guard, this one a faint azure colour, looked on with worried optics, gaze flicking to the dirty worker only one before they were back on his colleague.

“He told me to frag off!”

“You can’t just shock him, Strikeout! Remember? We got all these new rules now ever since the big mech’s back in town?”

Strikeout looked distinctly put off.

“Frag. Those apply to us? I thought they was just for you know, enforcers hunting boosterclowns and slaggin’ real criminals.”

His azure friend shook his helm.

“Far as I know, you put even a dent on fraggers like this one, you can kiss your aft goodbye. Called an abuse of power or something. I don’t know, Waverider explains it better.”

“You mean...but this one is sneaking around and all!”

“Write him up then.”

“What, just a shot? Not even a little roughing up?”

“Senator Sherma’s had people  _ arrested  _ for that, Strikeout. You wanna push your luck?”

“....I guess not. You!” The attention turned back to Momus, “You’re getting a shot on your work record. What’s your number and name?”

 

He gave them a withering look. “Senator Momus of Helex,  _ idiot _ . Threaten me again, cogsucker, let’s see what happens. Go on and shock me.”

_ ::Why don’t your people have the accent, I was bloody deceived.:: _

“Go on,  _ Strikeout _ , push your luck.”

_ ::Also, I think your security’s about to beat my face in.:: _

He pointed at the blue one. “Not you. Good job, you. You get a gold star.”

_ ::I reserve the right to yell and make a scene.:: _

“You couldn’t do it, fraggin’ mechscrap.”

_ ::You  _ **_suck_ ** _ at pick-ups.:: _

 

_ ::What the Pit are you talking about? Just show them your badge.:: _

Both guards had looked a little worried when the mech answered so confidently and also, ridiculously. There was no way he was telling the truth, but the gall he offered was unprecedented. Well, not entirely, but it was certainly new.

“You know what, he looks pretty dented already,” the azure mech took the pad out of Strikeout’s hands and handed him the prod again. It wasn’t even for use on mecha, it was to keep the damn siphoning crabs at bay.

“Give ‘im a real reason to be bitchin’ and moaning.” The accent trickled through with the anger.

Strikeout smirked, before giving honor to his designation and smacking the defiant mech across the helm with the heavy prod.

“Yeah? You like that, senator?”

 

Momus’ face whipped to the side as he stumbled back. The electrical burns crackled across the side of his face, charring the orange paint and leaving bubbled derma in its wake. They didn’t follow through, so he straightened, lips curling up as his otics blazed.

“This how you treat low castes, eh?” he asked, snarling, “Can’t take a few nasty words, sweetspark? Your plating that thin?”

_ ::Let me reiterate. You  _ **_suck_ ** _.:: _

Momus rolled his neck cables, sizing up the officers. They were bigger, stronger, meaner. Momus didn’t even have the support of miners beside him.

“Fraggers,” he spat, and threw himself at them.

 

_ ::What are you doing? Are you in the refinery? Primus, mech, just wait for me there.:: _

Sherma had no idea what was happening, but he was speeding towards the hulking building on the waterfront as quickly as he could.

 

“Got a lively one ey?” Strikeout and his buddy instantly forgot the new rules at the blatant attack from the defiant mech. Their brawl was quick to attract attention though. From beyond their workstations, helms peeked out in various shades of blue and green. Definitely workers. None of them seemed surprised to see guards beating on another mech. Much the opposite. The mech closest to the scene sprang up, whistling for the attention of his colleagues, He got it instantly.

“Yo! Tussle mon! Let’s go!”

The boxy little mech sprinted over, delivering a plate-crushing helm-butt to Strikeout’s aft, who yowled out his pain. The little one wasn’t the only one to arrive. Within seconds, there was a huge mess of fighting mecha. Not just against the guards, but against each other as well. Violence sprayed out in every direction.

 

Momus was back in the high of the oil house brawls again. He grabbed the security officer, jumping onto someone who’d fallen, and slugged him hard enough that his fist ached. Thrashing bodies, punching and kicking, writhed all around him but Momus had sights only for the security officers.

He yanked the prod away, and snapped it over his knee. Tossing the two pieces to the side, he continued to fight until someone with hands the size of his helm knocked him clean off his pedes with a punch to his chest.

Within a few minutes, the brawl spread out to the refinery and half into the private beach.

 

It was chaos, and obviously a huge, loud mess. It didn’t take long for enforcers to come in and for stun shots to be fired.

“Oh slag, the fuzz! SCRAMBLE!” the boxy mech from earlier, standing on someone who’d been floored, bellowed at the top of his vocal range and the mess turned into a mad rush of mecha trying to flee the scene.

Sherma arrived on the beach just to see a minor scale disaster of enforcers, brawling mecha and and prone frames littering his beach. He surged up from the water, transforming as he hit the shore. His guards were already entangled in the mess, some of them enthusiastically unloading round after round into whichever tangle of mecha they could aim at.

“What in the Pits is this?!” 

His appearance brought a swell of panic, and more mecha tried to flee, knocking into Momus and anyone not quick enough to gather themselves and run.

 

One of the rules of a brawl was don’t  _ ever  _ fall down during a mad herd rush. You risked getting stepped on by someone bigger than your plating could handle, or damage to limbs, or just being trampled.

Momus fell down.

He moved on instinct, curling up to protect the vitals and relying on his protected armor to keep him more or less intact. Someone fell across him, pressing him down to the ground. Momus grunted, but didn’t deny the body that was acting as a barrier for him.

One minute. Two minutes. He waited until the shots died down, before pushing the frame off himself and clambering to his knees.

“Certainly took you long enough,” he said, amid pained grunts, “I guess “security’s about to beat my face in” wasn’t enough motivation to hustle, hm?”

Momus still hadn’t tucked his fangs away.

 

Sherma was surrounded by his guards, who seemed very unwilling to let their senator step any closer to the mess of frames and pained moans, but Sherma parted them imperiously, forging a path straight towards Momus. 

Who looked pathetic, and hurt, and absolutely like the miner he no longer was.

“...How do you manage to get yourself into a street brawl within the ten minutes it took me to get here?” he sighed, kneeling down to see if his friend was severely injured or leaking energon anywhere.

“Sir, this is allegedly the mech who started the fight,” one of the enforcers saluted Sherma and indicated Momus.

“Should we take him into custody?”

“That will not be necessary, Collinder. Clean this mess up. Find out who was on security detail here, bring them to me when they’re conscious. And get these mecha out of stasis, this isn’t a damn riot!”

The enforcer flinched at Sherma’s ire, but nodded and got to work.

 

He pushed the frame off himself and stumbled up to his pedes. “I like Altihex,” he said, grinning past a cracked denta. “And we  _ still  _ need to talk.”

Momus paused. He stepped away from Sherma and cupped his mouth. “Altihexan lovin’!” he bellowed, then waited.

When the promised booster orgy didn’t occur, he gave Sherma a derisive look. “Where’s the orgy I was supposed to get?”

 

Sherma pinched his nasal ridge. The mech was unbelievable. Everyone on the beach had heard him alright, but since the crowd consisted of enforcers, downed mecha and whoever wasn’t fast enough to make it away, the chances of booster orgies was exponentially low. They did give the dirty, dented mech next to their senator strange looks though.

“Did your helm get cracked? Are you leaking? Do you need a medic?” he continued, more concerned with Momus’ health than the state of their relationship at the moment. Clearly, mentally, Momus was just fine and not shaken whatsoever to have been attacked.

 

“My helm is always cracked,” Momus quipped, “No leaks. Nothin’ vital, promise. Just take me somewhere we can talk because otherwise I might start another fight.”

He flashed an insincere smile at Sherma. “Your face is fine, though. I think.” 

 

Sherma didn’t return his smile, mouthed pressed into a thin line and optics completely lacking any emotional response. It was partially due to their location, but also thanks to their last conversation.

“Come on.”

Sherma dismissed his guards to help with cleanup, and then he started leading Momus away from it all, to the other side of the beach. The ocean rolled in to their right, and Altihex sprawled before them and to their left.

“So let’s talk.”

 

Momus sat down heavily, joints creaking. He looked a mess –  a far cry from the cheeky, coy senator he played at. You could’ve pulled him and his like from any mine all over Cybertron.

“Sit down,” he said, suddenly sounding tired, “You’re making me nervous with how stiff you are.”

He stared at the ocean, taking his sweet time as he carefully  sorted out what he came to say.

“Don’t arrest the security. They still need damn restraints, but this, I started the fight. I came here and I needed… to vent. It’s been a stressful two months.”

So this was what the ocean looked like. Momus dipped a finger in, feeling the water lap against his hand. 

“So.”

 

Sherma waited, but no more words came. It made him antsy, this tired side of Momus. He’d only ever seen the confident mech who strove for what he believed in, and the defeated dreamer when their overhaul had been benched. This was about neither of those mecha, and Sherma had no idea how to deal with him.

All he knew was that Momus didn’t believe Sherma loved him. He thought he was obsessed. What would be the point of beginning a relationship on a basis like that?

He sat down slowly, backstrut straight, faceplate neutral.

“I didn’t think you’d still come here.”

 

“I won’t run away,” Momus replied simply. He glanced at Sherma from the corner of his optic. “If you want anything, anything at all, with me, Sherma, then we’re going to have to discuss boundaries. Will you do that?”

 

“I’m not about to waste an opportunity.” Sherma kept his optics on the ocean. It gave him strength where he had none and peace where Momus’ words kept repeating in his mind. 

_ Have you ever loved anyone, Sherma? _

“Will it matter if we do? Clearly...I crossed a line. And there’s nothing to undo what you know about me. Something I didn’t want you to know about me. You’re so good at finding out what I don’t want you or anyone to see. And now you think something else of me. Will boundaries fix that that?”

 

“You’re infuriating, you know that? You keep  _ hiding  _ things from me. Not just… your own private things, or business, but stuff that’s relevant to your own damn feelings and what that means for the us.”

Momus shot him a hard, sharp look. “Are you upset that I found out? This is fragging rich of you. Controlled, austere Sherma, who can’t look his colleague in the bleeding optic because he’s in love with him, and wouldn’t  _ dare  _ touch him for fear of what it might change. But  _ pretending  _ is all right, is it? A valve, a spike,  _ as long as Momus doesn’t know _ .”

He looked back the ocean. Retracting his hand from the water, he sullenly picked at the sand instead. There was another wait, before Momus continued. “Do you want to know how that feels, Sherma? I feel like you made me your fantasy. An  _ object  _ that you can project all your desires onto. I talk and laugh, and you record that all down so you can pretend  that with my voice and replica, it’s me you’re fragging, because you’re too afraid to approach the real person. Would that have been enough for you, Sherma, if I hadn’t forced the truth out of you? Would you have gone on  _ lying  _ to me, everyday, to my face, before putting your spike in a hole that can’t call you out?”

“I need boundaries, Sherma, because I’m not going to forgive your lies by omission forever. There is a  _ limit _ .”

 

Momus didn’t understand it. He was Sherma’s fantasy, alright. The self-servicing would have happened, over recordings or memories, with his hands or with the replicas. Where was the difference? He was going to have to get better at hiding things from Momus, that much was for sure. Momus seemed downright furious every time he touched upon something Sherma didn’t want him to see.

Deeper. He had to sink down deeper, until his secrets compressed like weak plating in black water.

“Do you want this?”

He sighed and turned his gaze back to Momus, for the moment.

“Do you want to be with me at all? I know what we said. I heard what you said, I’ve replayed it a thousand times. And I know you’re not in love with me. I don’t know if you ever will be. I don’t want to bind you to something if it can only become nothing. I love you...so much, Momus, it hurts. And I find myself doing things I know I am ashamed of, to fill a void that wasn’t there before I met you. I thought about what you said. Whether I’m obsessed with you. I don’t know how to tell the difference, to be as frankly honest as you seem to expect of me.  I don’t know how to find out either. It’s disturbing.

So if you know anything with certainty, it would be more than I do. And we can still stop. I can learn to respect every boundary you give me. We can still be friends, if it’s not...If I am not who you want me to be, after you find out everything there is to know about me.”

 

“I know with certainty that I want my friend with me, no matter what.”

Sherma’s inability to grasp Momus’ meaning was frustrating. He just didn’t  _ understand _ what Momus was trying to explain.

“I don’t want you to be anything but who you are. Each time I think I finally  _ know _ you, you shock me with another revelation. It makes me wonder –   do I know you? Are we even actually friends? How can I be friends with someone who hides so much of himself from me?”

“Do you want to know why I’m so angry at you? Because it feels likes you  _ don’t  _ care about me. It feels like you only love a fantasy of what you think I am. You’re –  you’re projecting what you think I am, and you’re in love with that, not  _ me _ .”

 

“That's not true, Momus. I just don't know how I can  _ prove _ it to you. I'm afraid of overwhelming you with everything I haven't told you. But it's not a fantasy I am clinging to. I know you. You're far from perfect, you're unbearably stubborn and driven and you never forget what's truly important. You think highly of yourself but not above others and you'd sooner join an oilhouse brawl than a fancy dinner. I promise you, I love you as you are. I don't want to change anything about you. Sometimes it feels like you are the only one I care about.”

Sherma’s voice shook with unspoken apologies, optics misted and rueful.

“I don't know how to keep my emotions level when it comes to you. And I've hurt you, scared you and I am deeply ashamed you had to find out that I am like this.”

 

“If you want a second chance, you’ll have to make a promise, because I’m not the type to give out thirds. You want a relationship? You want anything more than friendship? Then no more lies by omission, Sherma. This time, it wasn’t all that big, shocking as it was. It was still something  _ you  _ should’ve told me, instead of letting it out like that.”

Momus stood and sand streamed out of his seams. He still looked the ruffian miner –  dents and scratches all over his dull plating, a small line of crusted energon on his bottom –  but he carried himself like he was the golden senator presiding over the podium.

“I won’t trust someone who won’t trust me. That’s my boundary. If you can’t give me that, then accept that you will only ever be my friend.”

 

“Lesson learned,” Sherma rose to follow him. He didn’t want Momus out of his sight for even a minute. It was too easy to lose him into a brawl or some other suspicious activity. And he was supposed to see Altihex from its best side, not its worst.

“Now that you know my deepest, darkest secret...Everything else seems kind of insignificant. I think some part of me wanted to get caught.”

Maybe that part of him was a glutton for pain.

 

“I always catch a liar. How else do you think I got to senator?” Momus walked towards the tower, not bothering to wait for Sherma. “I need a shower. Polish. Then a medic to fix my denta, and get these dents outs. I assume you have one in-house?”

Emotional talks were the exact opposite of arousing, it seemed. Momus wasn’t exactly inclined to share one with Sherma, now. “Just get me in. Then you can go back to… whatever it was you were doing.” 

 

“Momus,” Sherma walked to catch up with him. The tower was a very long distance away to walk, but not so much if they took the route Sherma preferred.

“You don’t have leaks. I need you to transform and follow me,” he nodded at the ocean, a small smile on his lips.

“It’s the Altihexan shortcut, if you will. I can hold you.”

 

He looked back at Sherma, suspicion heavy in his field. He looked at the ocean next, before his optics slid back to Sherma. “What are you going to do?”

Did Sherma want him to go in the water?  _ In  _ the water?  _ With _ him? Momus would  _ sink _ .

“What if you drop me?”

 

“Then you’d sink and I’d come get you. It’s not like flying, Momus. There’s less risk and a better view.” Sherma strode into the water, used to the surge and slosh around his plating. He’d never drop Momus anyway, even in the midst of a storm. 

Once the water reached up to his neckcables, he transformed, water splashing around every shifting part. His two little arms moved out, though he couldn’t reach them up far enough to hold above water.

“Do you still trust me, or not?”

 

Still wary, he slowly strode towards the water. It lapped around his knees when he stopped, struck by how  _ wrong  _ the water was. He’d never been confronted by so much, so  _ deep _ water like this. Even the energon reservoirs had been less intimidating. If he went down, he’d sink and there was no drain to let the water out from around him.

Shuddering at the sensation of the water, Momus stared at where Sherma was. He’d been neck-deep. If Momus got there, the water went  _ over  _ his helm.

“Can’t you… come closer, at least? I don’t want to transform, I want all my limbs out for this.”

 

Sherma grumbled, but came closer, more of his alt sticking out of the water than be in it.

“It’d be less resistance in your alt...but I guess you could hold on really tightly. Lock your servos into my plating. That way you won’t drift off, even if there’s unexpected current.”

Sherma pulled to the side, offering Momus the space behind his fin to get on to. This was nothing short of exciting for him, but he couldn’t understand the Helexian’s fear of water.

 

“Unexpected currents?” Momus didn’t squeak, but it was close. His plating clamped down as he leaned away from Sherma, looking queasy. “Isn’t… isn’t there pressure, in water? What if you drop me, and I sink, and you’re too late and I get crushed?”

More scenarios trickled into Momus’ helm. “What if a storm hits? Or… or those wave things? Or a whirlpool?” Granted, they were more from holovids than reality, but Momus was slowly back-pedalling from Sherma. “It’s  _ water _ . Can’t I just sit in you, or something? Can I fit?”

 

“I’m not big enough to fit you inside of me,” Sherma didn’t even begin to try and make that sound less suggestive. 

“There’s no storms until next week, and no whirlpools. Momus, all you have to do is hold on. I can give you open panels to hold onto, you can even cuff yourself to me if necessary. Nothing will happen. I know what pressure your plating can take. Please, dear, I’ve been diving since the day I was forged.”

Sherma was patient though, coming into the shallows further and wriggling his fin for Momus.

“You’ll love it. I just know it.”

 

“I’d rather jump off the Heights,” Momus said weakly, but he slowly tread closer. The water up up to his hips when he grabbed Sherma. He held on tightly, slowly navigating towards where he was supposed to hold. His servos locked into place.

His climb up was clumsy in a distinctly uncute manner. He kicked, slipped, and squeaked his way up, freezing in place whenever a wave rocked Sherma. He muttered all sorts of things, ranging from prayers to curses as he finally grabbed the fins and held on.

“O-Okay. I’m ready. I think.”

 

“I’ll go slow.” Sherma promised, adjusting a little until he was sure that Momus was lodged in place and held on tight. Then, the little green submarine began to move forward, out into the deeper waters, far away from the shore. On the horizon, the sunlight was blazing orange and red. Sherma blubbered happily. This...sharing this with Momus was a dream come true, at least for him.

“Down we go,” he called, just before they left the surface for the deep, blue beyond.

 

Underwater, your screams weren’t audible.

Momus clamped around Sherma in terror. The ocean was  _ dark _ . He could see the pinpricks of underwater buildings, but they were far away and dizzyingly numerous. He vaguely saw other dark shapes in the water –  other mecha, or something more sinister.

_ ::Hurry up!::  _ he commed, flattening down on Sherma to minimize his chances of falling and sinking and  _ dying horribly _ .

 

Sherma didn’t move any faster, trundling through the water at an amiable pace towards the buildings. Although their conversation rested heavily on his mind, he could feel himself being pulled towards the calm, quiet serenity that diving always gave him. He didn’t bring them very deeply, there were plenty of mecha working at higher pressures every day than what Sherma exposed his dear miner to.

_ ::Do you feel tingling on your plating? Or that soft current?:: _

Sherma could feel the way that Momus clung to him. Terrified and aggravated. 

Soon, they came into the circle of light exuding from the buildings. If one really paid attention, there were even figures visible from afar. As they got closer, the water got brighter.

 

They were going  _ down _ .  _ Deeper _ .

_ ::I hate this, and I hate you for convincing me!::  _ Frag your  _ wonderful views  _ commentary, Sherma. Momus wanted off the ride of wonder now. The lights drew closer but Momus wasn’t assured. He wouldn’t be until they came out onto dry land and he was out of the water and on his own pedes.

_ ::I should’ve walked on my own. Frag the ocean!:: _

 

_ ::I don’t know what you’re so scared of.::  _

Sherma replied sourly. He thought Altihex was far more beautiful from below, with his pillars reaching to the ocean floor, aquatic alts darting around in the water. Mecha lived down here, spent their daily lives with the water and Momus acted as if this was some kind of horrible accident waiting to kill him. Translucentica Heights was much more dangerous. The ground didn’t catch you softly if you fell.

Sherma moved them past the buildings now, everything lively around them. His own, central tower had a subaquatic level as well and it appeared before them out of murky azure waters. 

_ ::Sure you don’t want to see the ocean floor?:: _

 

**_::NO_ ** _!:: _ Momus was scared of the fact that he was in a big body of water where he couldn’t move himself, where the only way was  _ down _ . Sherma, the complete  _ aft _ , was treating this like a leisurely swim in ice-cold, dark, unknown water when Momus  _ was the exact opposite of an aquatic. _

Attempted murder was becoming more and more a tempting idea.

 

_ ::Alright, alright.:: _

Sherma didn’t give in to the temptation of going down without Momus’ consent. Tensions were already pretty high between them, he didn’t need to push the boundaries they’d yet to firmly establish. So instead, he brought them up, through warmer waters, until they breached the surface, fifty meters from the aquatic level of the tower. 

Water lapped at Momus from every side, a little choppier here than near the beach. Far below the levels lit up by the buildings, murky black awaited.

Sherma brought Momus to a platform with a walkway to the tower, constantly swept over by small waves.

 

He offlined his optics and clung on for dear life, long past the moment they broke surface. When he finally could move again, he rolled off Sherma with an ungainly grunt and crawled out of the water hurriedly. Once he was far along the walkway, away from the waves, he curled up with a shiver.

“Never again,” he said, looking at Sherma’s submarine alt. “I’m going to walk, next time.”

To his credit, his voice barely trembled after the ordeal he was forced through. Momus gave the water a glare. “I  _ hate  _ the water.”

 

Sherma waited patiently until Momus had rolled off of him and wobbled across the walkway to relatively dry ‘shores’ at the tower before he transformed and heaved himself out of the water with ease, droplets clinging to his helm. He didn’t look as amused as he should have felt. Momus’ fear was kind of hurtful, considering how much Sherma loved the ocean and its presence all around its home.

“Well, you’re here now. If you don’t want to be near water, you won’t see much of Altihex.”

And there went the schedule with all of its highlights. Sherma didn’t even know if he should try at all, or let Momus sulk in his rooms.

He keyed in his code and let Momus be scanned for unlimited access, then they stepped inside an elevator together, Sherma still dripping.

 

“Put me in a big submarine where the water can’t touch me. Then I might be willing to give the rest of this city a chance. But  _ not  _ when I’m freezing, terrified, and about to fall off.” His retort was curt as he stepped into the elevator with Sherma. His tension began to slough off only once the water was gone and he was safely sealed away.

“I  _ can’t  _ handle it,” he said, after a pause, “I was forged for the tunnels, Sherma. Dry, dark, closed tunnels. I already don’t like overly open spaces. I  _ can’t  _ do deep water.”

The elevator finally stopped at an absurdly high floor. Momus skittered out, looking around. “Why is the place so empty?”

 

“What do you mean? These are my floors,” Sherma followed him out, still contemplating the implication of being a miner vs the great blue ocean that felt like home to him. Maybe Momus would be comfortable in a dark, small enclosed space? Should he stuff him down an old oil pipe to feel at home?

Sherma walked right over to his comm panel and notified his private medic to take a look at Momus. Those dents really needed to be gone. At least the water had done a good job at stripping off that bad layer of paint.

 

“Floors?” Momus asked, looking around. Transmoria stunk of extravagance far from the litter in the streets. He slowly walked around, disregarding the water that dripped down his plating. He was still marked with some of the temp-spray –  in spots and streaks, though his gold and white shined through.

“Just  _ how  _ many of them do you have?” Momus was proud of his whole two floors. How many could Sherma possibly own?

 

“About fifty, usually. Not that I need them, it’s ridiculous,” Sherma poured them both some energon. Just a plain high-grade, nothing regional. 

“Although one is now in use by your friends, so I guess it’s forty-nine.”

He’d never thought about it. Transmoria was built before he’d been forged, and when he went into office, his home city accommodated him appropriately. The fact he was never going to _ fill  _ fifty floors didn’t matter.

 

“It  _ is  _ ridiculous. Please tell me you’ve made most of them into something useful. A clinic. Or a library.  _ Something _ .” Momus boggled at the idea of  _ fifty _ floors, all to one mech. Sherma couldn’t possibly use that much space. Why would he just  _ get  _ it? Helex certainly hadn’t given him anything besides his badge and a pat on the back.

“Why  _ fifty _ ? You need only one, or two. Hell, I have only two, and that’s because of my parties!”

 

“Just in case. I didn’t ask specifics when the city celebrated my inauguration, Momus. I just smiled and waved. And no, I’m not using fifty floors. Thirteen are a research lab, five for legislation about said research and eight for enforcer education. I have three for a public archive, two for the library, and another four for a private archive. Then there’s offices and trader consultation...and those are the permanent residents. The rest vary in their purpose. I mean...I can barely fill one floor. And I certainly don’t party. I would prefer to live at the bottom, but for security reasons, I have the top.”

Fliers were more easily spotted than anything lurking in the ocean, no matter how much Sherma argued with Collinder who was responsible for his safety.

“It’s kind of foolish, I think. My entire government is sitting in this tower. One attack and Altihex is in anarchy.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Momus murmured. He looked around further. “Where’s your medic? Thought he would go and fix me.”

He glanced at Sherma. “So… you have a staff. Like, a whole bunch’a people, running around, just doing what you want them to do. Is there a body guard lurking around too?”

Sherma’s wealth was unexpected. Momus  _ knew  _ he had it, but being confronted with it so directly was disconcerting. His hab in Iacon was so  _ normal _ and here, he had  _ fifty floors  _ and a  _ staff _ . “Does this mean you’re like, Altihexan royalty?”

 

“I don’t...I’m not. But I am head of government for my city state...of course I have guards. And staff.”

Sherma frowned at Momus. Just because he lived in a fairly small and regular habsuite in Iacon didn’t mean he wasn’t used to bigger and better. Didn’t Momus have anything like that back in Helex?

No...actually, probably not.

The medic appeared, bowing his helm to Sherma and after a moment of recognition, Momus as well.

“If you would, sir, follow me to the medibay.”

 

Momus wandered after the medic, still looking around the place. The architecture was much the same as Iacon, though there were a few Altihexan design changes. Mostly the water-themed decorations. The medibay, at least, was a familiar sight. Momus sat down on the berth without prompting, and the medic began to work on him. Scanners blipped over his frame as he prepared his tools and Momus opened his mouth obligingly.

_ ::Do the people here know we’re courting?::  _ he asked, watching Sherma.  _ ::Seems a bit relevant, since you’re the big dog here.::  _ Sherma, the alpha. What a disconcerting notion.

 

_ ::I haven’t made any public announcements regarding my personal status.:: _

Sherma had never made any statements about that, not in Iacon, not in Altihex. It simply wasn’t anyone’s business, he figured. Did Momus announce to Helex he was going to court a mech he wasn’t in love with? Bitterness washed over Sherma but as always, swallowing things down was his favourite way of dealing with it.

_ ::Should I? Have you?:: _

The medic bustled around Momus, giving quiet instructions in a soft Altihexan accent, obviously used to treating whoever resided in the tower. Most if not all Altihexans, but medics tended to speak several dialects anyway.

 

_ ::All the relevant ones know. I assume the outlets handled the rest. Why? Are you embarrassed?::  _ Momus held up his arm as the medic worked on the dents first. With soft  _ thunks _ , the dents were systematically popped out. The energon on his lip had been washed off during his swim, but the cracked denta needed to be replaced.

_ ::I certainly wouldn’t mind. It’d cut down the number of people trying to snag you.:: _

He winced when the denta was carefully taken out. Tonguing the empty spot, he quirked a brow at Sherma. 

 

_ ::Of course not. I just haven’t thought of it. Senators always seemed to make such announcements with motives...I’ve never courted before. I’ll need to know what exactly you told them.:: _

And to be perfectly honest, he kind of thought the conversation on the beach indicated Momus was on the brink of calling it off, so learning that he had, in fact, let people know was surprising to him. Maybe he needed to scan the media outlets for his designation or Momus’. He hadn’t seen anything yet.

_ ::There’s hardly a queue. And don’t bring up Crosscut again. He was devastated when I didn’t show up to his play...hasn’t returned any messages since then. I think he took it personally.:: _

It felt safer to steer away from their immediate relationship for now. Not that Sherma was feeling particularly amorous, watching Momus go through replacements and a repaint.

 

_ ::I told them we were courting. What else would I say?:: _

“Hey,” he said around the digits in his mouth, directed at the medic, “Me an’ him are courtin’.”

He glanced back at Sherma, amusement glittering in his optics.  _ ::There. See? Easy as that. And forgive me if I don’t care too much about Crosscut’s emotional state.:: _

The medic was still staring at him, but a look from Momus got him back to work again, though it was much more hurried. The denta was replaced and the medic soon got to work with the paint stripper for the temp-spray. The grey spots were filled out with gold and white, and retouched so he looked good as new. A polish, and Momus would be back in fighting shape.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Momus bounced back from the worst of moods, and Sherma would never understand what gave him the energy to be that resilient. When Sherma got in a bad mood, he wallowed in it for days, if not longer, depending on the severity of whatever pitched him into the mood in the first place.

The medic working on Momus glanced at him briefly, in question.

“He said that he and I are courting.”

“Ah. Congratulations, sirs.” The medic didn’t particularly care, either, nor would he be spreading the news. That wasn’t his job.

Sherma rolled his optics at Momus and paced over to a window. The view was mostly blue. He could see the sunroof-garden, twenty storeys below them. It was a lovely little patch of crystals and comfortable furniture and it was currently occupied by a mass of black and white metal.

“I see your friend has a better appreciation for the view. Where have I seen him before?”

 

“My party. Smokestack, low caste, was the guy who got me around. Good friend, gave me a lot of advice. Was the reason I found out, actually.” Momus had a way to quickly getting all the relevant points across. The medic gave him a scowl when his talking jostled him and Momus looked apologetic and stopped trying to speak.

_ ::Take me to the gardens, or something. Not the ocean. I still haven’t recovered from that.:: _

It wasn’t that Momus was the type to get over things easily. He… simply refused to let the low points stop his personality. He wouldn’t forget as easily as he forgave, and earning his way into Momus’ good graces would be even more slow going for Sherma.

“You’re looking at a wise mech. Wiser than both of us.”

“I think he’s recharging. In the gardens.” Sherma wondered what this Smokestack knew of him, and why he’d helped Momus come to his conclusion. He supposed he could ask him once they got down to the gardens themselves. They were part of the tour, but Sherma would have to cut out a lot of the ocean.

“He’s not afraid of the water. He’s lying really close to the edge.”

Sherma turned back just in time to see the medic finish the dental repair, hefting a paint nozzle. Momus looked much, much better with his dents straightened out, dentae replaced and derma fixed. Sherma felt twinges of desire peak past the helpless anger and frustration. He offered Momus a small smile.

“I can give you a tour of the tower, if you’re willing, once you’re painted.”

 

“Mm.” Momus made an agreeing noise. He watched the medic work on the temp-spray on his legs, stripping it off before repainting it. He flexed his digits, plates rippling. “Give me time for a scrub, first. I haven’t had a proper wash in months, or even a polish.”

He gave Sherma a shrewd look. “Is that aimed at my phobia of water? Because a miner and a trainformer are very different folks. Besides, if he falls in, the splash will be so big, half the ocean might get out.”

He wiggled a gold pede. “And some fuel, too. Fighting takes a lot out of you.”

 

“You mean brawling,” Sherma tried not to think of where else he had seen that exact touch of golden paint. Those things had been very violently pitched after their last communication chain. Momus had a point about him being creepy, and Sherma was actively trying to do something about it.

“So...are you staying with me, or do you want your own floor?”

It was a serious and very legitimate question. Momus wanted boundaries. Sherma would offer.

 

“I’ll take both.” There. That gave him options. “Besides, it’s a  _ floor _ . I can easily stay on yours and still avoid you.” Just so Sherma didn’t get cocky.

The medic finished and Momus popped a cheery thanks before he hopped off the medical slab. Waving his farewell, he left the medibay and looked around once more. “Right, take me to wherever you fuel. Then we can figure what we’ll do the rest of my stay here.”

 

Sherma waved off his medic after thanking him as well, and the two of them were alone again. Sherma had intended to take Momus to a lot of places once they were here, united in Altihex. It was supposed to be romantic, and he still didn’t dare touch the other mech for fear of doing something unpermitted. Boundaries, boundaries.

“I’ll take you to my favourite place to fuel tomorrow, if that’s alright. For now, let’s just go down to the gardens. I can have something else brought in if you don’t like Molten.”

Being in company was safer than being alone, and at least there was someone else present in the gardens, even if he was asleep.

The sea-breeze was salty and strong when they left the indoors behind. The wind whistling around the massive platform was only drowned out by the resting tick of Smokestack’s engine. The trainformer was laying on several chairs, parked right at the front of the platform, beyond the crystal tree formations and facing the open sea.

Sherma walked to a different cluster of furniture, passing by a few other residents of the tower, who sat in little groups, steaming and smoking glasses in front of them as they chatted amiably. All of them bowed their helms to Sherma.

 

“Is it odd,” Momus said, as he sat down on a chair that was relatively away from the others, “that I’m beginning to feel like an irreverent cad the longer I stay here? They just… treat you very differently here, compared to Iacon. They  _ respect  _ you.”

He toyed with some sort of intercom system on the table. A holoscreen menu popped up, lighting up a soft blue, and Momus made a pleased sound. He looked through the options, passing over anything that looked even faintly like it smoked. Finally, he settled on some sort of cocktail that came in multiple colors and had decorations in it.

“Honestly, I’m a little offended.  _ I  _ didn’t get a fancy tower or respect. I don’t even make public appearances, since someone might throw a riot.”

 

“That’s because you didn’t come from the spoiled upper crust as I did, dear,” Sherma didn’t need to see the menu, nor order anything specific. He had a very uneventful sense of taste and he downright bathed in Molten every time he returned home.

“I don’t need to advertise it in Iacon. My wealth. I might have respect here, but it doesn’t mean I have more power. I can make minor adjustments, and I have. Trying to cut down on abuses of power...it’s the least I can do.”

What Momus looked at was almost concentrated enough to be illegal. It just barely passed as not being a booster. Sherma didn’t intend to warn him. Momus didn’t like to be patronized, especially not when it came to his fuel.

“You would find a scandalous way to house every low caste mech you could find in your tower, if you had one, wouldn’t you.”

 

“You know me. I like my scandals, and I like my equality. The place would be crawling with low castes within the week, if I had my way. The top floor would be where all the parties and orgies happen.”

The drinks came to them on a drone, and Momus sniffed at Sherma’s choice, before turning to his own.

“...why is it this smoking?” he asked, voice flat with disappointment. “Do you people have no sense of moderation? Is even a cocktail not safe from the helljuice you like to call reasonable energon?”

He messed with the straw, until it was nice and curly, before sticking it in. Momus puckered up as he tried it… and gagged. “I think my glossa lost a layer.”

 

Sherma grinned at that. Momus’ relationship of contempt with Molten was always going to make him laugh. Even in lesser concentrations, he just refused to accept this particular form of energon as something good. Somehow, Sherma didn’t find it offensive. Just adorably amusing.

“Dear, this is my tower, in my city. What did you expect to be in there? If you want something not Molten you’re going to have to specify.”

Sherma selected something else on the menu, surrounded by a graphic of a steaming cloud. When the drone brought it over, it shone a distinct green and it was very warm, though not too hot. Several little balls of gelled energon decorated the rim. Yes, the glass was steaming, but that was due to the dry ice dusted on the gelled energon.

“Try this. It’s triple distilled. Not Molten, I promise.”

 

“You lot are fond of your steaming things.” He took a cautious sip and still blanched. “Gah. This is kind of nicer, like how losing an arm is better than losing your helm.”

He drained it halfway, then poured in the contents of his cocktail to top it up. “Don’t mind me,” he said, sticking his straw in and sipped noisily. “Do you have bar snacks here? Like rust flakes? Or gel sticks?” Commonly known secret –  bar snacks were the leftover dregs scraped off the bottom of energon reservoirs. Other commonly known secret –  they were delicious.

 

“Something like that.”

The drone came back once more, this time depositing a huge platter on their table. Sherma reached out and took one of the steamed petrol crabs, breaking off a pincer and putting it to his lips. Sucking out energon from crabs was definitely a local delicacy. 

“Try these. They’re much better than rust sticks.” Sherma’s tanks rumbled with appreciation. Innermost energon, even when it came from so small a creature, had a very distinct flavour.

 

“What. The.  _ Frag _ .”

Momus pointed at the petrol crab. “That was  _ alive _ . That  _ moved _ .  _ That was not taken out of the ground like it should have been _ .”

He looked horrified. “What are you  _ doing  _ to it,  _ you have kissed me with that mouth _ . You  _ touched  _ me with that mouth. And you’re touching  _ that _ . I’ve  _ seen  _ those. Moving! Alive! Is eating other living things a high caste thing?”

 

At that, Sherma did laugh this time. Tension eased off of him enough to let him find Momus’ offended expression absolutely hilarious. No, the mech had no idea about Altihexan delicacies. No, he’d never had living, processed energon either. 

“No, it’s not. Everyone in this city eats petrol crabs...we have so many of them. They’d be a pest if they weren’t delicious. It’s a great supplement to mid-grade. Not to mention that they can be used to condense energon once they ingest it. Like a free distillation.” Sherma picked up the crab’s main frame, digging in until he could pull out something that looked like jelly and wobbled in his grasp.

“This is processed energon. You see that red veined center? That’s innermost energon. It’s delicious.”

 

“You are all horrible people. This is a horrible city.” Momus’ expressions steadily grew more horrified as he watched Sherma mutilate the poor creature,  _ rip out its innermost _ , and just… just  _ hold it up _ . He inched away, holding his drink in front of him like a shield.

“You aquatics are  _ weird _ , _ ” _ he said, tone firm. He touched the jelly, before snatching his hand back when it wobbled. “This is not what Primus gave us petrol crabs for, you monster.”

He slowly picked a crab up, and looked it over. It was dead already, but… “How do you open this?” he asked blankly. “Where’s the hinge?”

 

“You can bite it or break it. That’s why they’re steaming. Their external frame structure is broken down and the plating becomes soft,” Sherma was still grinning, mischief in his optics, and wasn’t that a rare sight. He picked up his crab after popping the innermost in his mouth. Oh, it was a delicious treat, alright.

“It’s basically cooked in its shell. And you could also eat the shell,” a soft crack and the crab was in two pieces, inner components distorted through intense temperatures.

“It may seem weird to you, but petrol crabs have allowed Altihexans of any caste to be properly fueled, beyond rations. Anyone can go out into the ocean and pick up a dozen of these. You can even cook them in solvent, if you’re worried about contamination.”

 

Momus tried some hesitantly. He had to chew it, much to his discomfort, and it slid down slimily. “I want rust flakes,” he said, after his third crab, “nothing can beat rust off an energon reservoir that’s been sitting for a decade.”

Despite his earlier apprehension, Momus worked through the crabs quickly. He was on his eighth and steadily sipping at his unholy fusion drink, before ordering another platter of crabs and a fresh drink. “These would be a good snack after a ‘face,” he said, “I always get a little munchy after. Do drones deliver to your berthroom?”

 

“They can do,” Sherma’s grin faded to a mere smile by now, although he’d been watching Momus fuel on the crabs with nothing short of affection for a while now. Even if he complained and preferred rust sticks, at least Momus was trying. That’s more than he could say for other senatorial visitors. Sherma had only had one or two here, but the high caste mecha had staunchly refused a snack that they’d seen low caste mecha consume at street stalls.

“You can get these anywhere in Altihex. At the beach, fresh, in the ghettos, fried and from stalls for half a shanix and in every restaurant, steamed like this.”

The mention of ‘facing, he let wander in one ear and out of the door. He could absolutely not obsess himself with touching Momus. Being in his company should be enough.

“I’m...really glad you came here. I know it’s been rough. I made it rough.”

 

“You can make others things rough too,” a cheeky wink followed before Momus cracked a crab open and sucked out its contents. He gave its a shell prospective look, before beginning to crunch down on it. For someone so concerned for Primus’ creatures, he was rather willing to eat them.

“No, seriously, Sherma. Stop wallowing over things. We cleared it up, we talked it over. You understand what I told you, and you’re trying. I’m not going to rake you over the coals for something that’s in the past.”

The second platter came and Momus chowed down. His drink, something pink and bubbly, came and he sipped. His gagging was minimal. Instead, he idly began to rip up chunks of innermost and drop it in his drink, fascinated by the fizzing. “This is gross. Gimme yours, I’m going to put it in.”

 

“You’re making a huge mess...” Sherma slid over his drink though, apparently none too ad-versed to be encouraging this spattered situation. Momus’ words soothed the last of his lingering tension away though. Returning to normal between them was important and most of all, in reach.

“This is pure Molten. You’re kind of committing a cardinal sin,” Sherma pulled a sour face when Momus dropped jellied energon into his drink with glee.

 

“I’m the best type of sinner, darling, you know that.” He poured it in, and black smoke poured out the rim of his drink. Momus stirred his concoction with his straw, before upending it into his mouth in one go.

He immediately put his hands over his mouth, fighting the urge to purge. After a few false heaves, he straightened up. “That was a bad idea,” he said simply, and ripped open another crab. “I might wake up dead tomorrow morning. Don’t be sad –  I died doing what I loved.”

Another drink –  bright blue. It was, surprisingly, only midgrade, though sweetened. He sipped on it happily, letting it wash down his mistakes.

“So what other cardinal sins can I commit?”

 

“I could think of a few, but not out here.” Sherma answered him almost immediately, voice low and in a purr before he could even realize what he was doing. But he’d look foolish if he didn’t commit, right? This wasn’t outside of the boundaries. This was just Sherma, trying to flirt with a mech he was apparently courting.

Publicly courting, because the outlets returned several pieces of very in-depth analyses on how long Sherma and Momus had been interfacing. Speculation, of course, but their united front during the debacle with the overhaul had apparently lead to very prominent rumours.

 

“Have a sense of adventure, darling. A few public ventures never hurt anybody.” The place was relatively empty. Sneaking off behind the crystals for some action was hardly going to hurt them. “Though, I guess you’ll have to wait for me to finish processing everything I drank. But anticipation’s good for the array.”

Momus polished off the platter, and he leaned back with a contented sigh. He pointed in Smokestack’s direction. “All drinks for him and his partner are free.”

Momus frowned. “Hold on. Do you actually have to pay for anything here?”

 

“Altihex is generous, but not an oasis of freebies, my dear. Yes, I pay for fuel.” 

Sherma looked over to the large heap of metal again. But the mech had stirred since their arrival, and something small and black was on his shoulders. They were about five hundred meters above the sea, but the trainformer sat at the edge of the platform anyway, legs dangling, smoking drink (a small barrel) in hand.

“They’re honoured guests with the same privileges as you. Don’t worry about them, dear.”

 

“Ah. Well. Good.”

Momus tapped the table, looking around. The view up here, where he was away from the ocean, was splendid. The sun cast a series of shimmering colors across the ocean, where multiple small dots of what he assumed were mecha in their alts floated on the waves.

“Altihex is a pretty city,” he said, lacing his fingers over his chassis, “You don’t get view like this in Helex. Iacon is too structured, for my tastes. All spinky order and and fancy mecha in the middle of their sparkly towers.”

He looked at Sherma. “I can see why you’re fond of it. Why do you spend so much time in Iacon?”

 

“Commuting in for every senate meeting would be a pain. It is. I’ve tried it. I actually used to go back to Altihex during any period where I had longer than a month of time.” Sherma sipped his new drink, the smoke curling gently in the breeze.

“At first, I stayed because I thought I could work better if I was closer to the seat of power. Altihex has a million things for me to do, and I’d be distracted. Iacon...it has a lot of culture. Prestige. The social side of it all. I was so interested, when I was younger. Enthusiastically trying to make friends, alliances...I was a fool. As I got more...I guess you could call it resigned, I started to miss Altihex more and more. I stayed out of convenience. And then, there was this mech, who crashed into the Senate and demanded change and that I definitely needed to keep an optic on. It was easy to forget how much I missed home.”

Sherma pointed to a lone balcony, all the way near the top of the tower.

“That’s where I wrote my first education reform. Heh. I should have written them all here, really.”

 

“I think you’ve been doing a lot more than keeping an optic on that mech,” Momus said archly. He leaned over the table, standing so he could rest his elbows on it and face Sherma. “I think I like Altihex a lot more than Iacon, and it’s closer than Helex. If you let me, I think I’d like to stay here more than Iacon.”

He tilted his helm. “Also, back in Iacon, I still think you should just sell your hab and move in with me. Easier access to pick your brain module, among others.”

 

“You do have an awful lot of space you’re not using.” Sherma leaned forward a little, offering himself closer and closer. Not touching, but offering.

“And that berth of yours. I may have fifty floors, but my berth doesn’t have room for ten mecha orgies.” He chuckled, keeping his optic very close on Momus. Possibly never to look away again.

 

“You could help me fill that space, yes,” Momus nodded sagely, “I assume I have space in yours, as well.” He took him up on that offer. Uncaring of who might see, Momus kissed Sherma, a hand going up to rest on his shoulder to steady himself.

There was no way for anything else to happen, not with the table between them, but Momus bit Sherma’s lip to get his mouth open. His glossa happily roamed inside, and he let out a contented hum. No need to rush, but certainly no need to  _ wait _ .  

 

Sherma did his best not to make anything more than a little grunt of contentment. Momus kissing him was balm on his spark, soothing every worry that had managed to lodge itself into his brain module ever since they’d begun this strange friendship-into-courtship.

Finally, he felt  _ forgiven. _

His mouth opened eagerly. They were definitely in view of the other garden patrons, but it didn’t matter whatsoever. Sherma didn’t think about having them removed. Momus was in his mouth and in his mind and everything else lost relevance. Returning the kiss with hesitant enthusiasm, Sherma was tempted to pull Momus over the table. Or make indecent use of it.

 

Optics dimmed, Momus’ kiss slowed until it was leisurely. Still a bit scandalous, since they were absolutely being watched, but no one would speak up against a senator, much less two. His field expanded until it could mingle with Sherma’s flirtatiously. There still wasn’t a hint of lust in him, however. He was feeling playful, but not so much that he wanted to frag, despite his earlier words.

Running his hand over Sherma’s shoulder, he left more love bites all across Sherma’s lips before withdrawing, looking pleased.

“You’re a fool,” he said, fond, “but you’re  _ my  _ fool.”

 

Sherma lingered there for a moment longer, looking a little speechless or brain-module-less, it wasn’t clear either way. He did smile at Momus, absolutely radiant as he took in the lightly insulting comment. He was definitely a fool for Momus. And as long as the miner was willing to indulge him, that wouldn’t change.

“If fools get kissed like that every day, I will gladly downgrade to being one.”

_ ::Nice work Moms. I told you it would work out.:: _

 

Unseen by Sherma, Momus gave Smokestack a thumbs-up behind his back. 

“You’re smiling,” Momus said, and gave him another, shorter kiss. “I like it when you do.”

So far, things looked to be working out. Momus sat down, grinning at Sherma’s continued shock. “I have been wondering one thing,” he said, “what happened to the replicas?”

 

“I disposed of them.” Sherma replied, imperiously deciding that this topic was not going to put itself as a wedge between them, ever again.

“It’s not like I would have had any more use for them, after our conversation. The message was received, believe me.”

Loud and clearly and arousal-killing, the message had been for Sherma to put aside all manner of fantasy and focus on the real Momus, who was genuine and trying and seemed to at least like kissing him, frequently.

 

“You better have,” Momus said firmly. He got up. “Come on –  you said you’d show me around. Lead the way, darling. I want to see your big tower.”

Heh. Innuendo intended.

As he passed Smokestack and Radar, Momus gave them both a dazzling grin. It was horrifically smarmy, as well, as were his brief finger guns.

 

Smokestack returned said grin, giving an approving nod even if Momus’ fellow looked very unassuming. He wouldn’t judge his friend for his taste, love fell wherever it wanted to. Radar just raised an optical ridge, silently asking what the big deal was. He’d expected someone fancy. Maybe in regal white and silver or gold like Momus, but his fellow senator was a boxy guy with nothing remarkable about him whatsoever.

_ ::No accounting for taste.:: _

Sherma had taken the lead, but he reached back for Momus, hesitating again, but then decisively taking his hand. If he was going to broadcast the fact that he was courting, he may as well get to hold Momus close to him in an obvious manner. It’s not like they’d wander Iacon like this.

“Let’s start from the bottom and work our way up.”

 

“It’s your tower,” Momus said, looking down at their hands with an approving nod. Urging Sherma to take the lead would take a while, but one day…  _ hopefully _ , it might take fruit.

They went down low, until Momus was  _ sure  _ they were below the water. It wasn’t bad –  it couldn’t get him in here, after all. He looked around, optics wide. “What’s this place supposed to be? And just how  _ big  _ is everything? I swear, it was to be bigger than Translucentica!”

“It looks that way because of the glass walls,” Sherma looked out into the deep blue. This was the bottom floor, and his secondary living space. It came with a hatch (for diving), a small range of dispensers, a comm console and a segregated berthroom that was entirely visible from the ocean, but could be shaded in case one needed privacy. It was his favoured of the two floor he actually used.

“Look. You can almost see the bottom of the ocean from here,” he pointed to the floor, glass as well. Beneath them, more blue, and darkness, and a little shimmer of sand now and then. A crab scuttled along, but apart from that, nothing moved.

“If I could, I’d be down here all the time.”

 

“So… if the glass broke, all that water would just come in?” he looked around, noting how  _ fragile  _ it all seemed. “I think I’ll keep my berth activities above water, thanks. Let’s go higher, I’m getting anxious just looking around.”

Momus scuttled to the elevator and waved at Sherma to hurry up. “Come on, or I will abandon you to here.” The place was certainly lovely, but all that  _ water _ … and only some glass, holding it back. The mere idea made Momus want to curl up.

 

“That’s...not accurate, dear,” Sherma came back to the elevator, shutting off the lights as he went. There was no need to disturb the sealife with the ‘bulb’ as he sometimes called it. The elevator doors closed, relieving Momus of the blue sight.

“It’s glass we produce here. It can withstand more than you’d think. Do you know how much pressure we have at this depth? A breach would rip the whole structure apart.”

Sherma chuckled to himself. Aquatics had a very different notion of water and its dangers, and it was more of a mild nuisance if the bottom half of his tower tore off and drifted to the bottom of the ocean.

“You’re more likely to fall off of a balcony at Translucentica than get into water deep enough to crush you into a cube, dear.” Sherma linked their hands again as the elevator brought them to the research level. Here, everything was a little more encased with steel and solid walls, but the ocean was still the backdrop to everything.

 

“You are awful at reassuring people,” Momus informed him dryly. “Somehow, I don’t feel safer knowing that. Thanks.”

He glanced around the research area. A few mecha wandered around –  some of them even not aquatic alts. Microscopes… and a few he didn’t recognize. “What kind of things do you research here?” he asked, curious. “How to not die from when your tower inevitably drowns?”

Running his hands over the desks, he poked at a computer terminal. “I’d take the fall over drowning any day.”

 

“You wouldn’t drown. The pressure would burst your internals and crumple you inwards.” Sherma corrected, following Momus as he looked around. It was well past working hours by now, and most stations were empty. A few tanks held floating devices, one of them something organic and alien.

“There’s various research topics. Mostly regarding the oil we drill for out there,” he gestured to a window, “and upgrades for underwater structures and aquatic alts. See, I wanted to know how much deeper I could go with a building. Have a functional, sustainable city at the bottom of the ocean as a backup may be...useful, one day.”

If things continued so turbulently, Sherma wanted to relocate his entire city state, if possible. It would be extremely difficult to build in that depth and with the pressure, but the senator had his spark in his project and often chartered for it himself.

“It’s a project.”

 

“Awful. You’re  _ awful _ .”

He still messed with the things around. There even was a tiny model, that might’ve been the city Sherma was referring to. Momus pressed close to ooh over its design, optics bright. “I like the idea,” he said, “though I’ll always stay on the surface. There could be a war and wild animals and the cities could all be dust, and you couldn’t convince me to go down.”

He looked back at Sherma. “Right. What’s next? Library?”

 

“If you want it to be.” Sherma wondered what Momus did in Helex. The city state was in dire need of many improvements, but the senator wasn’t the only form of government for it. It had its own council, comprised mostly of the mecha who owned the industrial complexes. A nightmare to navigate all those interests and profit-grabbing lowlives.

“And really? You’d rather die in a fiery war than live at the bottom of the ocean with me?”

He was offended, a little, but Momus’ phobia was a genuine concern for their plans.

“Maybe we should get you some flotation upgrades, just in case. Free whilst you’re here, mon. Gitcha free floats in dem ol’ struts.”

 

“Not even your adorable accent can stop my well-earned terror of your ocean,” he warned, even as a smile threatened to break out. “The bottom of the ocean can frag off. No way, no how.”

He grabbed Sherma’s wrist, and dragged him into the elevator. “Take me to the library. I like seeing all the books. Come on. We’re not going to talk about what aquatic upgrades you want to give me. As far as I’m concerned, you could make me into a  _ submarine _ and I wouldn’t do it.”

 

“You’d feel differently about it if you  _ were  _ a submarine,” Sherma chuckled, letting his hand cling to Momus’ arm and moving the two of them into a corner of the elevator until Momus’ back hit the wall, firmly. Sherma watched him eagerly, stuffing down the notion that they were alone and anything could happen.

“You’re only getting half-value out of Altihex if you don’t appreciate the water, my dear.”

 

“I don’t want the full value experience,” Momus retorted. He noticed their position, and gave Sherma a sly look. 

“You’re thinking something,” he accused, “aren’t you?” He looked around their setting. “I never took you the type to go for a quickie in an elevator.”

 

“I’m not.” Sherma eased up on the pressure, stepping away from Momus, scolding himself. Boundaries. Don’t touch Momus unless it’s right. How was he supposed to tell? He wanted nothing more than to have free access and kiss and touch all he wanted, but Momus wasn’t his toy. This was turning out to be way more difficult than he anticipated.

“Sorry.”

 

“You’re impatient,” Momus said, though his fondness took out the bite, “It’s only my first day, and you’re already so eager. Slow down, darling. Anticipation’s good for the spark, too.”

When the elevator came to a stop, Momus tugged Sherma along. “Show me your library. What kind of books do you keep?”

The poor dear. Momus was touched by his careful control of himself –  it spoke more of his willingness to  _ try  _ than any wordy promise. Being simply respected… it was a rare thing. A good thing.

 

The tour of the tower took them well into the evening and early night. By the time they reached the gardens for the second time, Smokestack and Radar had still not gone inside, instead sitting together amiably, drinks in hand, exchanging quiet words and caresses. Sherma and Momus didn’t stick around for the view, since the couple looked to be extremely involved. 

It was a test for Sherma’s patience. Each floor brought him another opportunity and even excuse to think about doing unspeakable things to Momus, but with each tug he gave himself, each restriction placed on his suddenly rampant desire, he felt more in control of himself. Better. This was probably what Momus had meant, had wanted. And in any case, it felt better for him as well.

Sherma could hold Momus’ hand and be alone with him in a room, in a small room and in a habsuite, without befalling the mech for interface.


	17. Chapter 17

It was pitch-black outside when they arrived at the top floor again. Unlike other cities, Altihex wasn’t surrounded by a sprawling landscape and massive highways. There were a few dots in the inky blackness, which were raft islands and some water-transports. One road led across the bridge to the mainland. But outside of Altihex? Black water as far as the optic could reach.

Sherma took Momus up through a small hatch and ladder, onto the roof of the tower.

“Please tell me heights aren’t also a problem, dear?”

 

“Actually, no. I’ve seen some  _ deep  _ mine shafts, in my time.” He paced the roof, leaning over the edge to look down at the ocean, before returning to Sherma’s side. “It’s nice up here, actually. Really… quiet. It’s nice to leave behind the titles and just be us, you know?”

Momus leaned into Sherma, soaking up his warmth in the coolness of their current elevation. He stared up the sky the most, observing the night sky unimpeded by the usual lights of a city. 

Momus had been quietly aware of Sherma’s constant self control throughout the tour. It was hard not to be, when he brushed near and tasted the desire in the frayed edges of his wandering thoughts, before Sherma tamped down on it and his field was back to being compressed.

It was impressive of him. He’d been nothing but courteous the entire time, even when Momus was close enough for him to attempt  _ something _ . Hadn’t even made the slightest suggestion, either, even when Momus flirted.

With his back against Sherma’s chest, arms hanging loosely at his sides, Momus thought and came to a decision. Leaning back more, and rising up on his pedes, he pressed a brief kiss on Sherma’s jaw. “Your control is admirable, but you are allowed to touch me, if you want. Boundaries doesn’t mean being afraid, darling.”

 

“I am though. You were so right...in what you said. How I saw you. I’m trying to make adjustments,” Sherma wrapped his arms around Momus, sighing with bliss when he could lean his helm on his love’s shoulder. Just close, nothing lewd, nothing tempting, even with the permission given.

“I should be content just to be with you. It’s a mystery how we ever came to find each other. What stroke of luck brought us together. I need to appreciate that.”

 

“Well, did you ever consider that  _ I _ may not be content with only that?” Momus chuckled. “Oh, darling, sometimes I think you forget that I was the one to start everything. I made the first move. You can too, if you want to.”

Momus trailed his hand over Sherma’s hip. “There’s no one here to see us, and a berth just a little bit ways off. I think it’s time you realized a replica will never match the real deal, don’t you?”

 

Sherma turned his helm, kissing Momus’ neckcables in lieu of an answer. A replica would never have Momus’ spark, or voice, or heat and he knew that. But his fantasies had satisfied cravings that he could not inflict so easily on the mech now. And that was fine. They could work up to it. Sherma nibbled, gently, kissing what he could with eager attention to detail as he traced over Momus’ frame. This was fine. This was allowed. Sherma kissed Momus’ jaw, his cheek, his brow. He had permission. He nibbled on an audial, those being features he had a particular weakness for, arms securely around Momus at all times, without holding him prisoner.

 

Sherma seemed to have accepted his invitation wordlessly. He was still careful, abiding by his own rules, and his kisses –  as numerous and eager as they were –  were still rather chaste. Momus hummed approval before he slowly turned, hands resting on Sherma’s hips.

“There are other places you could be putting your lips on,” he said softly, “I welcome it.”

Momus was still careful. He wouldn’t bulldoze his way into something, like he’d done the first time. He wanted Sherma to do it, once the suggestion was out there, until he was comfortable enough with the idea that he desired Momus and could tell Momus just that, rather than have it build up until he had to find a way to release it. It was Momus’ working theory on why Sherma went so far with his fantasies; his brain stopped working, and his array began to do the reasoning.

 

So openly? Was he suggesting that Sherma lay him out here on the roof and stick his lips on his array? It would suit Momus to have that kind of lewd idea, but in the interest of taking things slowly, Sherma merely smiled at him, leaning down for a brief kiss.

“You’d have a nice view of the stars if I did just that, hm?” he spoke against Momus’ lips continuing to hold him as close as he could, servos sliding over his frame with more confidence.

 

“The best view,” Momus agreed, “though the one between my legs is good competition.” He arched his back, offering more of his chassis for Sherma to touch. Getting things to work out  _ just right _ took a lot of practice, but he was certain he could get it right, this time.

“Promise not to panic after we ‘face?” Though, some important things needed to be clarified before this got any farther. “Remember, I’m a cuddler who talks and eats. You’ll have to put up with that.”

 

“I think I can manage to carry you downstairs for a decent cuddle and snack,” Sherma made mental note to do exactly that. But first, he’d like a snack that would satisfy his cravings for Momus in an entirely unsavory way.

“I promise that this time, you’re not drunk and I’m not desperate.”

Well. More or less. He was under control, let’s not push it further than that. His grip wandered lower, bringing Momus’ closed array against his frame. Their position was vastly different this time, and although Sherma was quite strong, he couldn’t lift Momus up all the way to his faceplate. A quick ‘facing, or his glossa in Momus? He wondered which the mech preferred, so he pinged him the question silently.

 

_ ::Glossa, for now.::  _ was Momus’ simple answer. He tugged Sherma down with him, uncaring of the hard floor under them. For all his talk on anticipation, he wasn’t exactly in the mood for waiting either. His valve wasn’t totally raring to go, but it was tingling, protocols readying. A few strokes, a few licks, and he’d be soaking in no time.

He traced Sherma’s seams, watching him through the darkness. “You… have done this before, yes?” he asked baldly, not trying for embellishment. Sherma’s love life, or lack thereof, was already apparent between them. Whether Momus would need to give him some guidance needed to be known. It would be better for both of them, in the long-run.

“If you want a few hints, I’m fine with that.”

 

“I think I’ll figure it out,” Sherma smiled at him bashfully, before kissing a path along his frame, arranging himself between Momus’ legs. There was no hurry in his motions, in the way his fingers massaged seams, found parts of Momus’ frame that he didn’t know. With no hurry, his glossa traced over the closed panel. Golden. A real treasure, not a replica for his fantasies. This was the ‘real deal’ and Sherma wanted to take every moment to enjoy it. That drunken frag...it didn’t count.

“Do you think you can open up for me, love?” he whispered.

 

Momus needed no further prompting. With a click, his panel was back, displaying his valve in all its gaudy glory. He was nowhere near as lavishly plush as Sherma, but made up for it in sheer  _ shine _ . Momus certainly hadn’t held back here. Even in the dim light, the gleam of his rather rarely-used valve was apparent.

The gust of cool air on such sensitive circuitry made Momus huff, and his valve contract. He hooked a leg over Sherma’s shoulder, keeping the other to the side, effectively spreading as much as he could without the aid of digits.

“Don’t rush,” he said, even though Sherma had never in shown a hint of haste. “Dentae… are fine.”

 

“You look exquisite,” Sherma praised, looking at the finely constructed, painstakingly painted golden glory beneath him. Even though he’d had the replicas, they didn’t compare to this. Didn’t compare to how he felt, being allowed to do this. He leaned down to kiss Momus’ anterior node, slowly exploring with his lips, glossa tame for now. His fingers played in Momus’ seams, tracing along his hips and memorizing every dip and crook of his frame.

 

The sound Momus made was more a sigh than anything else. He reached down to gently place his hand on the back of Sherma’s helm, more to feel him move than to control, or force down. 

“I don’t know about exquisite,” Momus said, panting a little when the pressure on his anterior node increased, before ceasing, “but I think I got my money’s worth.”

Sherma was slow –  so much Momus almost thought he was teasing. His steady exploration had some merit, but as Momus’ valve began to water more, he didn’t feel too kindly to the way Sherma kept his touches on the exterior. “It’s not fair to tease, darling. Don’t hold back on  _ my  _ account.”

 

“I thought you told me to enjoy it.” Sherma would not rush this time. He closed his lips around Momus’ anterior node, sucking lightly. Tasting Momus in his mouth was amazing. A little tangy from all the cocktails he’d mixed, and warm with charge. Sherma’s engine growled, his fingers tightened their grip on Momus’ hips. Sherma’s glossa traced over the node, slipping into the valve folds now and then, before exploring it in earnest. Warm, wet. It greeted him eagerly and Sherma burned the memory into his mind, to replace his absurd fantasies. 

This was real and all Momus and better.

“You taste good,” he breathed against Momus’ valve, before dedicating himself to it in earnest, optics dim as he pressed his face against soft mesh and plating.

 

“Naturally.” His leg twitched as Sherma pressed closer, inching up his back. Momus relaxed back, watching the stars twinkle above them softly, his digits ghosting over the back of Sherma’s helm as his glossa slowly opened Momus up. Lubricant and oral fluid mixed, slicking his valve up.

It was strange. Momus couldn’t have expected  _ this  _ to be the culmination of their long years of friendship. In fact, he had doubted he’d ever find time for relationships outside of the occasional stress reliever. Sherma falling in love with him? Completely left field. If it had been anyone else, Momus would’ve been suspicious of their intentions. But it was  _ Sherma _ , and if there was anything Momus had learned from their friendship, it was that Sherma didn’t possess a single malicious strut in his thickset frame.

His sincerity, in all honesty, was a little overwhelming. Sherma was careful to hide it now, after his mistake with the replicas, but Momus could tell that his depth of feeling went beyond infatuation, or all-encompassing fondness. His feelings mimicked the oceans he loved so much –  deep, hard to navigate, and capable of drowning Momus.

Momus didn’t question himself frequently. Yet here, he found himself wondering if encouraging Sherma really was the best idea. He wasn’t going back off any time soon, if the last several decades were any indication, and reciprocation wasn’t guaranteed. Was denying him  _ any  _ chance simply the kindest course of action? A relationship unequal in affection was a cruel one.

His shoulders tightened when Sherma fondled his node with his lips, and Momus pressed down a little harder. A month, a fight, and several mishaps into their fledgling relationship, and Momus was already doubting matters. His usual ability to throw himself into something, mind and body and spark, failed him here.

“Come on, darling, it’s a valve, not a cube of Molten for you to nurse.” His vents clicked on, soft and quiet, and his valve cycled down for something that wasn’t there. 

 

“I’d nurse this all day and night if I had it in a cube,” Sherma chuckled against mesh, watching as the valve expanded for an intrusion that wasn’t coming. Talking wouldn’t be possible for anymore though, as he allowed his glossa access. Momus was well and truly lubricated by now, his calipers clasping at nothing but air. Sherma moved until his nasal ridge was pressed against plating, eagerly pressing his glossa in deep.

 

“Ahhh,  _ yes _ ,” Momus hissed as Sherma  _ finally  _ got to work in earnest. He still wasn’t being filled, but the glossa was better than nothing. He clenched down around it, feeling his hips move against the contours of Sherma’s face. His mouth was just in the right place that he could grind against his nasal ridge, and Momus took full advantage of that.

His vents clicked higher, until his soft moans threatened to be drowned out by the soft drone of his systems swallowing air and dumping heat. The coolness of the night air no longer mattered. Momus’ optics were still bright, but he no longer saw the stars. His full attention was on Sherma –  specifically, his mouth.

 

Sherma wished he could expand his glossa or something, because Momus’ insistent grinding was definitely begging him for more that he couldn’t give in this position. His glossa traced the inside of Momus’ valve, finding the ceiling node and tracing it, sliding along the mesh walls. Momus wouldn’t be satisfied with this for long, judging by how his calipers twitched.

Sherma pressed his face closer, nasal ridge bumping hard against plating. Momus swallowed him up with greed. He sucked hard at the mesh touching his lips.

 

The ceiling node was what tripped him over. His overload was still tinged with dissatisfaction as Momus released a short shout, his digits clawing down Sherma’s helm, and his back arching up further. He pressed down as hard as he could, keeping Sherma in place, and rode out the overload on his face. Lubricant dribbled down his inseams as his vents gasped for air that wasn’t already heated.

Moments passed. Slowly, Momus relaxed, letting Sherma go, and his leg slid off his back. The hard clench of his valve also softened, until Momus was simply sprawled on his back, optics dim as he vented.

It was only the start, however. His valve still ached with a sharp want for more.

“Come on, you,” he grunted, reaching down for Sherma, “Good mecha deserve kisses.”

 

Sherma had spent Momus’ overload diligently lapping up what he could. It was an odd taste, but it was all Momus and he wouldn’t waste it whatsoever. He only let his fellow senator pull up his helm once he was satisfied to be leaving behind a very clean array.

“You know you sound great when you overload. I like that. I want to hear it all the time,” Sherma delved into the kiss he was promised eagerly, now leaning over Momus’ frame, one hand steadying the two of them, the other possessively on Momus’ hip.

 

“Squawking and yelling? You hardly need to ask again.” Momus kissed Sherma sloppily, tasting himself on his glossa, around his lips. His digits brushed over heated plating once Momus nuzzled his neck cables. “Darling, do say you’re up for a go at my valve. I’m feeling a little greedy.”

Down his chassis, over his hip, and right on his warm panel. Momus squeezed it, imagining the weight of Sherma’s spike in his hand, and purred. “On your back. I want to ride you until the whole tower can hear you.”

 

Who could argue with that? Sherma groaned, a little in despair at Momus’ ambition, a little relieved that his beloved wanted to carry on. As well as it had tasted and been to get a first-hand experience with Momus, it had been far from enough to satisfy him.

“That’s ambitious. You know how high up we are?” he obeyed though, moving his frame away from Momus and to find a comfortable space on the hard ground, watching Momus with nothing short of anticipation.

So much for moving slowly. Momus knew what he wanted, and he was definitely old enough to make his own decisions.

 

“I think that’s only just more motivation,” Momus replied as he prowled closer on his hands and knees. He took his sweet time straddling Sherma; stopping to kiss his plating, run his digits through seams, nuzzling his helm –  until they were back in the same position they’d been the first time. Momus hovered near his abdomen, arms laying across Sherma’s chest, smiling.

“Now then, darling, will you make it easier for me by opening up, or will I have to work a little harder than that?”

“I want to see you go at your pace,” Sherma whispered, but his panel unlatched anyway, open for Momus’ easy access. Last time, he’d decisively guided Momus into a pace of things that he dictated. Maybe they needed to do everything on Momus’ terms to even that out.

“I also want to see you ride the submarine,” he smiled coyly at that, fingers lightly on Momus’ thighs. He’d love to let them linger there for life.

 

“Jokes? Perhaps I should ‘face you far more often, if it gets you in such moods.” He didn’t quite sink down on his spike yet. Momus found it and lingered near, letting it close enough to part the lips of his valve as he ground down on it. Slow, methodical strokes of his hips let the tip rub across his node, creating just enough pressure to make his vents a little ragged.

“Get used to the view. I can be insatiable.” Lubricant dripped down to his spike, as Momus sighed. A plate caught across his node, and he left paint streaks across Sherma’s chest with the way he dragged his wrists down. After all his self-inflicted teasing, finally sitting down on his spike was a relief.

Sherma went in easily, sliding in with another small gush of lubricant, rubbing over Momus’ ceiling node the entire time. He vented yet again, accustoming himself to the new girth in him, clenching down experimentally, before beginning to move. 

 

It was better than their first time. At least, for Sherma, because the massive weight of guilt and hidden emotions, it was all out on in the open for Momus to see and know and make his judgements of. Sherma could just relax and enjoy the feeling of slipping into his beloved. He did, with a throaty moan that promised to continue the longer his engine growled like an anxious racer’s.

“I could definitely get used to this view,” he managed to mutter, looking up at Momus, framed by the starry sky and the hot air streaking from his vents. Sherma didn’t want to go overboard, but Momus looked like a Primus-sent gift right now, golden and gleaming in the silver moonlight.

“I love you, so much,” Sherma whispered, optics dimming immediately as Momus shifted, wedging his spike into a tight, hot valve and stretching out soft mesh around it.

 

“I know,” Momus whispered back, for lack of anything else to say. He rode Sherma, hips swivelling to rub his spike in different nodes, all the while shifting on his knees for a gentle thrusting motion. This was a special moment. The secrets were out in the open now, and they both could revel in each other’s frames without unsaid things holding them back.

The silvery light reflected off the surface of Luna-2 highlighted Sherma’s reverent expression, from the ways his optics were blown white to the soft, rapturous smile as he watched Momus above him. Momus could only meet his optics for a short while before he was looking down, staring at Sherma’s chin instead. Eventually, his optics dimmed offline, shutting out the world so he could concentrate on moving harder. Rather than the soft  _ ssshhhk  _ of metal sliding across metal, his more insistent movement drew clangs that echoed across the roof.

Sherma found it romantic and promising that they could share in this in a new way. The two of them, alone, the world falling away just like the land fell away from Altihex. If only they could spend the rest of their lives like this...as an island, isolated and ignorant of the world’s problems.

Sherma couldn’t look away from Momus. He found new angles from which to find him beautiful, new lighting that worked and enhanced Momus’ already pleasant features. Yes, Sherma had seen aesthetically more cohesive mecha. Yes, he’d interfaced with partners who were rather more ravenous for his approval.

But he’d never loved anyone the way he loved Momus. He allowed the Helexian to set their pace and the degree of the thrusts made together, mostly by Momus’ downward motion. Sherma’s overload was building thickly, charge leaking as much as transfluid was dripping into Momus at every slight contact.

 

Momus drove himself down hard, trying to coax out more sounds from Sherma. His grip on his plating was already viciously tight, and his single-mindedness brought the crashes of their bodies meeting to a new crescendo. There was no way anyone on the top floors, at least, couldn’t hear what was happening.

“Say my name,” Momus demanded, even as charge was swapped between them, white-hot strikes of miniature lightning sparking off each other’s plating, and something hot was building up in his chest. Green streaks decorated his inner thighs and wrists. 

 

“Momus,” Sherma gasped, obedient, and losing his control slowly to the bristling charge leaping over various parts of him. His fingers, hands found holds on Momus, trying desperately to keep his mind level and present so he wouldn’t make a mistake to scare Momus off.

“Momus...” he moaned, desperate this time to keep his sanity rather than lose himself into a litany of confessions. The charge built, heavy, unstoppable and the loud noise echoing around them lost against Sherma’s release, of pleasure and noise and charge all tangled in one howl of voice and engine as one, connected only by the name he belted out, belonging to the Helexian as much as Sherma himself did.

 

Momus, still fresh off his previous overload, couldn’t follow after Sherma, even when the charge sizzled his circuits with pleasure. It was fine; watching Sherma fall apart under him was satisfaction enough. His weak moans became cries, piercing in the peaceful quiet of the tower, and Momus noted with some measure of smugness that anyone near would’ve heard that –  perhaps even the people still on the beaches and water below.

Sherma bucked suddenly, and Momus grabbed his shoulders to steady himself. Drawing his knees close, he instead enjoyed the hot rush of transfluid inside him, stemmed by Sherma’s spike so it only went deeper into his tanks.

Soon, the lightshow of Sherma’s charge died down. Momus shuddered as a few zapped his legs, but didn’t rise from his spike. It felt nice to have it in him, filling him.

“Sweetspark?” he said, running his palm over Sherma’s shoulder and chest, “can you hear me?”

 

The charge trickled away, but the overload had washed out half of Sherma’s brain module, apparently, because he could only look up at Momus with a happy smile on his lips, optics briefly lighting, then flickering to dim again.

“I can feel you,” he muttered, spike twitching with renewed interest, still lodged deeply despite the slosh of transfluid seeping out, soaking Sherma’s frame and splattering the roof with bright pink stains.

“And sort of hear you, hm.”

 

“It’d be strange if you couldn’t,” Momus replied indulgently. Sherma’s vacant expression drew a soft huff of laughter from him. “Have I shocked the words right out of your mouth, darling? My ego’s already getting bigger.”

He ground down a little, moving the spike. Fluid squished out through the small gaps, dribbling down. “We ought to take this below. I still want to see what else your array can do, and the ground’s a bit too hard for everything else I’ve in mind.”

 

“What happened to making sure everyone could hear us?” Sherma teased gently, before separating his frame from Momus’. Fluid drenched them both and the unmistakable, ozone-smell of charge lingered around them both.

Sherma kept his word, or rather, his implication, and tugged Momus into his arms until he could lift him up and transport him downstairs. A little awkwardly, mind you, because he was wobbling down the stairs, still dizzy from his overload.

At least he didn’t drop Momus until they got to his berth. Sherma punched something into the console next to his berth to order more petrol crabs, remembering very well that his lover had mentioned them as his desired post ’facing snack. 

“You didn’t overload...do you want to take a break? Fuel? Massage?”

 

Momus let Sherma carry him down, not protesting even when he was handled like a delicate Towers noble. The drips of fluid marked their trail to the berth, and Momus weakly giggled at the thought of anyone stumbling into that. The night air would carry the scent of charge away, but the fluids would harden to a crust if they weren’t mopped off soon. Momus, with his experience with orgies, knew that well.

Once he was situated on the berth (nice and spacey, though not quite as roomy as his own), Momus sprawled out, uncaring of how it spread his array for whoever wanted a look. He knew his array was pretty –  he’d paid a lot to make sure it did.

“I’m not a escort ‘bot with the necessary upgrades for chained overloads, darling. I need a little while to work up the charge needed for an overload, especially so soon after one. It’s why I fuel after –  need the extra kick to get my systems ready for more.”

Watching Sherma lazily, Momus shifted a little. “A massage? You mean where you rub your hands all over my frame? Isn’t what we just did, with a lot more charge going around?” Not that Momus was ignorant to massages –  in his experience, they were brisk rubs to get circulation going and nothing more. Not too bad, but certainly not something one did during a ‘face.

“Nah, ‘s fine. Don’t need that. I wanna see your valve instead. I’ve spent quite a lot of time gettin’ acquainted with your spike, an’ I think it’s time for somethin’ a lil newer.”

 

“We have all night, you know,” Sherma squirmed at the notion of displaying his valve. He remembered the last time Momus had seen it painfully well and just the memory alone made him clench that panel shut tight.

“I could use a snack,” the drone arrived just in time, depositing the platter and then slipping over the transfluid on the floor. It beeped, and Sherma just nodded towards it. Armed with a tiny mop that extended out of its torso, the drone began to enthusiastically clean up after them.

“And I’m a little surprised, Momus. I would have thought you to be exactly the kind of mech capable of chaining overloads.”

 

“Frag you,” Momus said, laughing softly. “I just told you my frame can’t do it. But now I’m gonna get the mods, just to spite you. You’re going to be begging me to stop once I start riding you through the berth.”

He reached over and cracked a crab open. Slurping down its contents, Momus kicked his legs up. “Get over here. I’m a cuddler too.” He noisily ate, crumbs slipping out his mouth and onto the floor messily. The drone, somewhat exasperated, scooted closer to clean his mess.

 

Sherma paid the mess no mind, arranging himself comfortably at Momus’ side. They could do this, definitely. Cuddling after ‘facing...it certainly felt enough like a true relationship to let Sherma forget that it might not be. Momus was playing alone just fine right now though, and Sherma would be greedy for every drop he could get.

He nestled himself closer, helm resting on Momus’ shoulder once he’d finished his crab. Their fields mingled so gently, it felt as if they’d been intended to intertwine.

“I’m not complaining. We live a good life...even if things could hardly get worse around us.”

 

“We could die,” Momus said, grabbing another crab, “or war could start. Proteus could hire an assassin to get rid of me permanently. It can always get worse. Probably will, since our species is collectively idiotic.”

He shrugged, only a little apologetic. “Have you thought about my proposal yet? I could do with you at my side, darling. The Decepticons always need more support.”

 

Sherma contemplated how their future could get worse and he had to agree; it would be an easy progression. Even if they were removed from it all right now. There was no permanent escape from Iacon’s decisions, not even here in Altihex.

“I just wonder if we can offer enough mere support. Their reputation is already being dragged into terrorism. Proteus is afraid of them. That’s a good thing, I know, but you know as well that he’ll monger up the fear and gain support.”

Sherma had read Towards Peace very, very carefully.

“If Megatron really means every word of what he’s written, he’s a visionary. But if he’s anything less? We could be promising Cybertron into complete anarchy or worse.”

 

“Something will be built out of the ashes. But first, the rot must be burnt out. Doubt will only stop us.” Momus moved onto his third crab. “Don’t think I don’t understand the implications. I know. War. Terrorism. Riots. The Decepticons are hardly a noble group of rebels fighting for freedom. Their ranks are made up of low castes who are angry, cynical,  _ violent _ . They’ve joined because they want to be the ones kicking, after being kicked at for so long.”

The crab’s innards went down easily. He waved the empty leg around, still talking.

“Still, look at  _ us _ . Ratbat puppets the industries. Proteus controls the military and enforcers to make sure they stomp on the low castes. Other senators look on and then look away so they don’t have to think about reality. We remove people’s hands and heads for saying the wrong things. We have  _ mnemosurgeons  _ on our payroll to wipe out seditious thoughts. Is anarchy such a bad idea when  _ that’s  _ the order we’ve built?”

 

Sherma wanted to argue that they, personally, had not built Cybertron as it was. The system was in place before either of them were onlined. The system had functioned for longer than anyone could remember. And now it was rotting and corroding and they were too afraid to tear it down. Others cared so little for the decay of the world that they rather dress in the rotting pieces than try to burn them away and build something anew. 

Sherma and Momus had been part of it, whether they helped build it or simply existed and partook in its process.

Really, they owed it to the mecha who believed in them to clean it up.

Sherma watched the drone clean up the mess, scuttling over the floor, the berth, without intruding. That’s how government control ought to be...non-intrusive. Helpful. Quiet.

“Burning the tower whilst you’re still at the top seems like kind of a dumb move...but I like your brand of dumb. You met Megatron. Do you think he means his words? He could just be a hungry warlord, waiting to feast on the chaos of destruction.” 

 

“He wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t have something special about him. You think desire for rebellion comes rarely? Hah. There’s a dozen miners every ten feet who dream of taking up arms and striking down the high castes. It takes a special mech, however, to write Towards Peace and rally up the people. I ain’t special, darling. I wager there’s a dozen other miners smarter than me wandering in the tunnels, just  _ waiting  _ for their chance to shine. I lucked out. Guys like Megatron, though? They don’t  _ need _ lucky breaks.”

Momus turned to Sherma. He cupped his face, optics avid. “I’m telling you. Just  _ meet  _ Megatron, and you will  _ know _ . You doubted me too, at first. And now look at us.”

 

“Hm? Are you suggesting that I try to understand Megatron as I understand you?” Sherma chuckled, dimming his optics as he leaned closer to press a kiss or two onto Momus’ neckcables. He knew that he agreed with the rebellious miner, both the revolutionary author and the senator right here in his grasp. But backing the Decepticon cause was a step beyond agreeing.

“So he’s a mech that forges his own future, is what you’re telling me. Sounds like someone that you truly believe in. And if you do, I do. His work is inspirational. It truly is. The Decepticons may yet be the only party looking for real change.”

 

“Well, not  _ totally _ . I’d say this can be kept between us with no harm done.” Momus accepted the kisses in good humor, contentment threading through his field like a lazy cat around someone’s legs. 

He was still interested in continuing their activities, but the current topic was fascinating, far more than mere physical pleasures.

“Remember what I always used to tell you? Have hope? Well… I think I have more of it. I can taste the  _ change _ , Sherma. People are opening their optics, talking to each other, thinking beyond caste and function and dreaming of the future.”

“It’s no longer… just me. You know, I used to fancy myself the savior of the low castes.” Momus laughed, sardonic and mocking. “ _ Me _ , Momus the great changer, the one who rose to the top and stopped the evil high castes. It… was juvenile of me, I must admit. My optics are clearer now. But I never let go of that hope for change. One mech changing the world is… a difficult, fantastic prospect. But one mech, with the weight of a thousand others behind him? Then, change suddenly doesn’t seem so far-off. It’s a relief, to realize I am not the hero of this narrative, and just a player.”

He kissed Sherma’s nasal ridge. “I’ll try not to pressure you much, darling. But… the idea’s out there, alright? You know what’s happening. You know what i’m doing. It’d be a great thing if you joined me.”

 

“You don’t need to convince me, Momus. I wanted to change things too, remember?” His overhaul, his reforms, they were all dwarfed by the ambitions the Decepticons brought to light. And maybe that was a good thing. Changing one thing at a time didn’t work out, so why not scramble the entire system? Maybe it was the only possible solution. Maybe it was the future. Sherma would welcome whatever it wrought upon them, because change was guaranteed. 

For better or for worse, Cybertron couldn’t stay the same as it was. Any fool worth his shanix should know that, and embrace a future in which form no longer dictated function. Momus, his precious, beloved Momus, was proof enough that the system was stifling their progress. Mecha like Momus, smart, intelligent innovators, trapped in professions with their alt-modes would never have a chance to become anything else. And that wasn’t right. Sherma was no longer blind to the wrongdoings of his caste.

“I’ll join you. We’re a good team and who knows what good we can bring this...revolution. I will become whatever the Decepticons need of me. If they'll have my allegiance at all.” That was a point to consider. Sherma didn't come from the mines or the low castes. Sherma was part of the enemy, the elite. But if Shockwave could speak his mind, then so could Sherma.

 

“Of course they would have you. Abolishment of the castes need to start somewhere, right? So why not now, here?” Momus grinned at Sherma, feeling a little dopey with how painfully genuine it felt. “Thank you, Sherma. For listening. For understanding. It would’ve been easy for you to brush me off.”

But here he was, believing and all because  _ Momus  _ had said he must. 

 

“It would’ve been easy to ignore what’s going on beneath me too. Ignorance is such bliss,” Sherma trace his hand over Momus’ arm until their fingers could meet and he laced them together. They’d be a team, no matter how rambunctious their relationship would allow them to be. He promised that, silently.

“It’s no great service, it’s the bare minimum. You can thank me once we’ve overthrown the world order, hm?”

 

“Ooh, can we call ourselves  _ rebels  _ now? How exciting.” Momus’ carefreeness held a note of tension. He wasn’t blind to the dangers they were facing –  this was perhaps the most dangerous option they could’ve taken. Even openly opposing Proteus on the senatorial floor would’ve been a safer bet than active dissent.

“Are you  _ absolutely  _ sure?” he asked, a frisson of worry making his field waver, “I won’t pressure you, Sherma. This is big. You lose your standing, your title… everything about being a high caste, if this goes through. If the Senate finds out… you’ll be worst than a low caste. You could be empurata’d.  _ Shadow played _ . This isn’t a personal fight for you.”

 

“Momus...” Sherma’s field surged to steady Momus’ where it wavered, sought to hold it when it wanted to dissipate. 

“It is personal. No high caste mech got anywhere without being carried on the shoulders of manual and below. None of us would be sipping energon if it wasn’t for miners and workers, working and starving and dying for our lives. It should be personal to every single inhabitant of Cybertron.” Sherma kissed Momus’ shoulder.

“If I continued to plead ignorance, I’d be as guilty of corruption and oppression as Proteus. And that would cost me more than title and standing, that would cost me my morality.” 

 

“If you’re sure,” Momus said. He silently considered Sherma a while longer, running his optics over his entire frame, before his tight expression softened into a gentle half-smile. “Let’s leave this alone for now. We already talk about politics all the time, anyway.”

Leaning in, their foreheads meeting, Momus nuzzled Sherma as he kissed him. His lips slid down, over the corners of his mouth before trailing up to fondly press against the swells of Sherma’s cheeks. “Let me treat you this time. I didn’t see your valve nearly as much as I would’ve liked to. Show me, pretty please?”

 

“Politics are how we make a living,” Sherma reminded quietly, but who could focus when Momus expressed his affection so sweetly that it almost convinced Sherma that he finally felt more than fond friendship.

“You haven’t seen it up close and personal at all. Video calls don’t count, my dear.”

His array twitched with excitement, panel holding only loosely to his frame. He was ready to share himself with Momus in every way possible, alright.

 

“That video call doesn’t count,” Momus said. He rose up to his knees and rested back on his haunches, watching Sherma with bright optics. “Show me what you’ve got, darling.”

 

“Same as anyone else,” Sherma shuffled back so that he wasn’t sprawling his array right into Momus’ face. Just because he wanted to be looking at it didn’t mean he should have it rubbed in said face.

The panel snapped back with ease, unveiling mint green, lit by eager node-lights.

“Nothing fancy. This is insulation,” Sherma tapped on the thick mesh with little regard for being alluring. That wasn’t something he could pull off.

 

Momus immediately swooped closer, pushing aside Sherma’s knees so he could get even closer. His breath lingered over the mesh as he examined it. Video didn’t do the richness of his lining justice –  it was thick, and when he touched it, soft in a springy way. “Insulation,” he repeated, ducking closer.

His digits danced over the thick lining, moving it this way and that before he toyed with the pliable material. Gently squeezing it only seemed to delight him further.

“You’re so  _ soft _ ,” Momus said, excited by something so foreign. Softness didn’t happen for a species of metal mechanisms –  but this wasn’t the strange, unsettling softness of an organic, either. It gave way when he pushed, but resettled once he retreated, and felt warm. It was softer than protoform, or tubing, and almost rubbery in texture.

“This is  _ great _ ,” he murmured, and pressed his face close. He wasn’t even trying to lick –  his personal exploration took precedence over that. It squished against his mouth, and Momus grinned against it. Anyone else might’ve been embarrassed over such a ridiculous display, but Momus took his obvious fascination and  _ ran  _ with it. Eager fingers and lips exploring the soft mesh, testing its give and stretch and softness. 

Sometimes Momus used his digits to hold him open, and marvel at the plushness further inside he normally wouldn’t see. Sometimes he took one side of the insulated lining into his mouth and sucked, though remaining careful to keep his dentae away. He did it all with the eager delight of someone completely pleased with himself for having discovered something new and exciting.

 

At first, Sherma felt utterly humiliated. Momus was bouncing his fingers and mouth on his mesh with great delight, but nothing short of playful and not in the enticing kind. As if he was forgetting that this mesh was part of Sherma’s array and it was sensitive. The node-lights flickered with each press of Momus’ mouth to mesh, Sherma gasping quietly at each sensation.

Then, he embarrassment was slowly thawing away as he watched Momus’ expression. Admiration, adoration...Momus genuinely pleased with soft thickness of Sherma’s lining.

“You...don’t mind it getting in the way?” he spoke softly and carefully, “I’ve had some complaints about holding it apart...”

Cairus, mostly, because doing additional work had irritated the Praxian senator beyond belief.

 

“Get in the way? No way, this is even  _ better _ . It’s so soft.” He cupped his hand over it, feeling the warmth seep in as he kneaded down. “I could spend all day just with this in my mouth.”

Taking his hand away, he used both thumbs to gently part the lining instead. It separated slowly, lit up by the little white lights, and Momus licked a stripe up the slit. The softness pressed against either side of his face, and he shivered in delight.

“Out of curiosity. Just curiosity, mind. You have anymore of this insulation stuff?”

 

Sherma shuddered bodily when Momus licked him. He barely suppressed a moan, fans clicking on immediately. His fin dug into the berth until he smoothed it down manually.

“Y-yes. Most of my internals are lined with it. Brain module, t-cog, sparkcasing...as well as gestational tank and four-way pump.”

None of those were as accessible as his array though.

“It ensures functionality in the cold of real depths...and helps ease the pressure off of my plating. Primus, Momus, you’re  _ cuddling _ my valve.”

 

“It’s so  _ nice _ , how could I not?” He rubbed his face in more to prove his point, kissing and licking as he tasted the beginnings of lubricant. “What about your spike? Can you get  _ more _ ?”

He suckled on the lining, rubbing what he could reach with his fingertips, before nuzzling his way up to his anterior node. “What about this?” he asked, “Is it as nice and soft as the rest of your valve?”

 

“Momus everything is sensitive even if it’s soft,” Sherma chided, optics flickering as Momus brazenly touched his delicate areas. When was the last time another mech had been with him like this? He couldn’t remember, but no one had touched him with such sheer amusement by his physical features.

“Why would I get more? I’m perfectly insulated,” Sherma smoothed his fingers over Momus’ helm.

“I can dive leagues and leagues without problems.”

 

“Yes, yes, I get  _ that _ ,” Momus waved off, “I’m not asking for your diving. I mean –  can you get more, in general? More of this,” he kissed Sherma’s lining, “would be fantastic. More than fantastic, even.”

 

“More...lining?” Sherma didn’t follow, and Momus made no sense. But that wasn’t new. The mech had the strangest habits and moods sometimes and his nuzzling was making Sherma rapidly forget everything he’d ever read.

“Where am I supposed to get more insulation? On my plating?” Sherma laughed. He’d look ridiculous.

 

“On your spike? More on your valve? Plating would be fine. Maybe on the neck too…” Momus imagined Sherma with the extra insulation –  all sorts of soft little sweet spots for him to play with in privacy, or at least when no one was looking too closely. “I think it’d look lovely.”

 

“I suppose I could always insulate my neckcables...” Sherma wondered if they were discovering a new kink together here. Certainly felt that way, with Momus fondling and caressing and kissing. Maybe he would indulge his love this new habit...get a few more frame-parts insulated. 

“I feel like you found a new toy,” he allowed himself a tiny moan, “But I’ll remind you it’s got my nodes, very much embedded in it.”

 

“All the better to play with,” Momus purred. He looked up at Sherma, every inch of the cat that got the canary  _ and  _ the cream printed across his face, optics twinkling. “I did tell you wanted to treat you real good, didn’t I? This is just part of that. Lay back and enjoy it.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Altihex was bliss, all in all. With their boundaries settled, and their exploration of each other just barely begun, Sherma finally got to see and experience Momus the way he wanted to. Relaxed, at ease, explorative. He showed him everything of his home, the sights, the hidden corners, the views from the most unlikely of places. They explored together, and each other. Long nights of discussion, of philosophy and politics and scandalous views on public indecency. It was their personal bubble, which Sherma would treasure until the day he offlined. Every day with Momus was bliss. Every moment holding his hand and listening to his terrible commentary was a delight. Sherma fell more deeply into the pit of love and there was nothing to pull him out of those depths, ever again. Momus was his one. His sparkmate, his everything. Sherma just had to convince him of it.

 

Tonight would mark their last in his city and Sherma wanted to mourn it already, if he wasn’t so busy trying to convince Momus that they didn’t need to take a transport across the water. Currently the two of them were exposed on the sea-level platform, with Sherma standing on the edge and Momus huddled against the tower.

“Dear, it is the best oilhouse in all of Altihex. You simply have to see it and visit it, there’s no way around it. It’s a twenty minute ride, at most.”

 

“Twenty minutes in the water?  _ Exposed _ ? Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I don’t have any handy-dandy insulation, or fins to get me going. I can barely stand anything longer than five and you think it’s  _ only  _ twenty minutes?”

He took a step back, and crossed his arms obstinately. Spending time with Sherma had been a blast –  they’d planned rebellion, talked, ‘faced, and grew even closer (as it turned out, Momus didn’t need his own floor. Or his own room. Or even his own berth, washrack, and the basic concept of privacy.). Momus had enjoyed every moment of it but…

… but a mech had to have  _ limits _ .

“Get us an underwater transport or I’m going to go and self-service in your room with your doors locked and the walls transparent.” It was no idle threat. Momus had discovered early on that Sherma’s pent-up issues regarding Momus made him weak to things like that.

 

“We don’t even have to dive. You could be above the water, just ride on my back,” Sherma whined at the threat. Momus could be cruel and weird and oddly forceful about his punishments, which generally deprived Sherma of something regarding his person.

“Getting a transport means activating drones, waiting for it to be here, logging it with security...”

 

“You can ask your array if you want to do all that, or go without tonight. Your choice, really.” His tone was deliberately flippant as he leaned back, helm turned to the side as if he were posing for a photoshoot. He certainly pulled off distant moodiness well.

“Besides, it’s not as if we can’t do things while we wait.”

 

And deprive Sherma of a swim that scenic? Momus was a cruel lover when he wanted to be. The aquatic senator pulled a face, dangerously close to pouting. Sherma was a lot less stoic here than in Iacon.

“Fine. Use my weakness against me. I’ll call you the transport.”

He was definitely not going to take it. The short ferry ride would be enough time for Momus to consider how nice and intimate it would have felt to be in the water. And he’d have to go below deck and see the view anyway, because that was the key feature of the particular ferry that Sherma arranged and pinged for.

He sauntered over, leaning in for a kiss. He’d been very blatant about his affections here, on his home turf.

“Don’t get used to me being such a pushover, though. Special honeymoon rights you’re using, here.”

 

“Oho?” Momus was already responding, rising up to snake his arms around Sherma’s neck to kiss him back. He took his sweet time before pulling away, but his coy smile showed no sign of wavering. “You should join me on the transport, darling. Then you’d get your own special rights there…”

_ Swimming _ . Sherma seemed oddly set on the whole practice. The idea that it would be romantic and fulfilling seemed to be lodged in his brain module, never mind the fact that Momus froze up and silently screamed the minute he entered water deeper than his waist. Pff. Typical aquatic.

“I certainly don’t think you’re a pushover, not at  _ all _ . I do think that, in certain occasions, you can be… persuaded.” Momus mouthed his neck cables. “Join me on the transport, darling. My mouth’s been feeling a little empty as of late.”

 

“You mean since this morning?” Sherma let his hands sweep over Momus’ frame, content to touch him in any way possible for as long as he could and was allowed to. Although logic dictated that he would have Momus when they returned to Iacon and not the ocean, Momus was making a very strong case for preferring the company of a former miner to the deep blue.

“That is a terrible predicament, my dear,” the transport blew a horn in greeting as it arrived, a tiny platform up top and an expansive body beneath water, mostly featuring clear windows.

“In you get, love. Don’t sink.”

Sherma pulled away, letting himself drop off of the platform and into the water with an almighty splash, transforming as he sank under the surface.

 

_ ::Damn. I’m spoiling you if you can resist  _ **_that_ ** _. Since when has the promise of mouth ever not persuaded you?::  _ Momus clambered into the transport with good-natured grumbles. He sat down on the bench, where the massive windows were, and wiggled his digits as Sherma.

_ ::Can you see me?:: _

 

_ ::I can see you waving, yes.:: _

Sherma flared his searchlights, swimming next to the transport which set off at a moderate pace, diving only a few meters below the surface to avoid the choppy waves.

_ ::It’s not resisting. Let’s say I’m savouring it for later, when I can convince and have my swim. You know me, dear, I have to have it both ways.:: _

The little green submarine was the only thing visible in the vast blue, aside from a few cybersharks and petrolcrabs drifting by.

 

Things looked fairly isolated here. Momus turned the lights low to be sure, before laying back on the bench. He mutely jabbed a digit at Sherma.

_ ::Then I hope you remember what I said about self-servicing and locked doors.:: _

The click of his panel snapping aside was wholly defiant. Momus was here to prove a  _ point _ .  _ ::Try not to sink, darling.:: _

When the transport docked at dry land, Momus stepped out with his digits in his mouth and charge still crackling down his plating. He’d been very careful not to leave any stains, so the transport would only have the slightest scent of charge and nothing more. His knees wobbled only a little, but his field was that of a king’s.

“Good swim?”

 

“Electrifying.” Sherma emerged from the water ravenous, optics full of lust or murder, or a weird mix thereof. Momus had done some things in front of him that Sherma had never thought of in the ocean and yes, he ran into two coral reefs because of it, but those dents would come out easily and Momus would be less smug once he was overwhelmed with the romanticism of their last evening.

They were definitely not the only ones here. The island was dominated by a cluster of buildings, one of which the oilhouse, the other two holding various entertainment establishments. And mecha were everywhere, mostly manual caste, enjoying themselves at the beach and at tables, with crabs and smoking drinks in hand.

 

“I could say the same,” he sniffed, and marched past Sherma like he hadn’t just put on a show for him. He got only a few steps ahead before stopping and looking around, optics darting from the various beachside shacks the littered the area.

“So, you said you’d be bringing me to the best oil house here. Lead the way, darling. Also, aren’t you worried that you’ll be recognized?” Momus was still horribly smug, and he smirked at Sherma’s unstable field. He might’ve fluffed his plating more, and cocked his hip just enough to nab his attention but Sherma could hardly do anything about his sass in such a public location.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherma said, horribly distracted. He took another couple of moments to get going at all. Momus was so good at demanding his attention and holding it ransom.

Finally though, he lead the way into the main shack, taking a menu console and nodding at the bartender, who let them through a door marked private.

This spilled them out onto a stretch of beach completely empty of other patrons, with just one table and seats on the sand. To the right, a small jungle stretched out. To the left, the building towered, blocking the view of the lively scenery of manual labourer mecha. And in front of the table, across the water, a vent-shuttering view of Altihex bathed in the afternoon sun.

“Thought I should save the best for last.”

 

“Woah.” Momus blinked, then stared. “What the… what’s this place supposed to be? Like… a private thing of yours?”

He stepped forward, pedes sinking into the sand slightly, as he slowly circled his surroundings. He edged to the jungle, peering in, before retreating to the waterfront and the massive building. “What’s this for? Some sort of partition for our side of the beach?”

Sherma certainly didn’t do things in half-measures. The setting was idyllic. The sun was high enough to cast light for another several hours, but low enough to stain the sky in a palette of cherry reds and blushing oranges, which reflected onto the gently rippling water. Soft waves swept up and down the clean sand, but the table was far enough to not risk soaking.

“Have you been planning this?”

 

“Only slightly. I wanted you to have a memorable view.” Sherma smiled, guilt only a small part of it all. At least he didn’t have this place built specifically for them. He just rented it for the night, well aware that it came with a berth and night lights that turned the dark ocean into a beautiful, inky backdrop.

“Do you like it?”

It was a valid question. Momus had an entirely different set of aesthetics.

 

“Of course I do,” Momus enthused, still flitting around as he looked at everything with fresh optics. “Really. This is just… really sweet of you, Sherma. Remind me to take  _ you  _ on a nice date like this.”

Finally content with his investigation, Momus sat down at one of the seats. “Okay, so! What’s the dinner plans, darling? You got us this far, I assume you’ve got the rest all nicely planned out as well. Crabs? Fuel? Some other horrible blasphemy in the optics of Primus?”

 

“Are you still sore about the shark fin stew, dear? It’s great for your tanks, to eat a little dissolved plating once in a while.” Sherma settled next to him on a seat, sighing as he sucked in the sea-air. He’d miss it dearly.

“This is our last night. I thought I should make sure you want to come back here as often as possible.”

They were going to have every delicacy in the ocean, and then some. Then, they’d stargaze, drink, probably ‘face, fuel, talk, ‘face, recharge. That sounded like a lovely evening to Sherma. The quintessential Altihex experience.

The drone hopped over the sand with a little difficulty, bringing Momus a slightly steaming glass with a ring of jellied innermost decorating the rim and green energon sloshing around inside of it.

“It’s gaining popularity. I thought you should have the honor of naming it.”

 

“Is that the monstrosity I made on the veranda? Someone was watching me? Someone thought recreating it was a  _ good  _ idea?” He swirled the liquid around, staring into it… before looking up to give Sherma a wicked smirk.

“I think I’ll call this lovely thing… the Senator’s Secret. I think it matches your plating, darling, ‘specially the ones down below.”

He swigged it back down, then coughed roughly as his sensitive intake protested. “Right so. Last day in Altihex. You got any particular feelings about that?”

Momus had enjoyed his time here. It felt like being friends with Sherma again… with some added ‘facing thrown in, an addition he didn’t protest. Altihex felt apart from the rest of the world, even when the political backwash from Iacon swept down here, and some days, high in the tower, when the sun barely kissed the horizon and the only person awake was Momus, it felt like nothing mattered but each other. The moment was always popped, but those suspended instances were carefully preserved like insects in amber, to be held up and admired when the world didn’t seem quite so beautiful.

 

“Of course I’m not feeling particularly eager to return to Iacon. It’s dry, it’s corrupt, it contains Proteus...” Sherma noted the name Momus had chosen down, shaking his helm about the crude reference to his lining. Momus would have people believe Sherma’s valve dripped energon from the folds. That was a hideous line of thought and the Altihexan pushed it from his mind.

“I like being here with you. Alone. But we have responsibilities. New ones, now that we can finally serve a better purpose through just being present...we’re going to have to get in closer with Proteus’ posse. If we’re to be informants to the Decepticons, to protect them from raids and plots alike...leg work. The game. I thought we’d be done playing, but now we have to steep ourselves in it.”

 

“You’re more friendly with his crowd than I am,” Momus said, “I’ll work on rounding up the lonely ones who don’t affiliate with either groups too much. We can’t start creating trouble anymore. Intercept what we can, but things like the overhaul aren’t an option. If we’re going to be useful, we have to be above suspicion.”

Momus looked down at his drink. “We can’t diverge too much, though. I’ll still be me, throwing low caste parties and orgies, and you still be you, with mark sixty-two on the way.”

 

“Can’t rouse suspicion now, can we? I’m sure your whereabouts have been discovered...the fact that you’re here with me.” Sherma wondered what sort of nasty rumors and plans they’d already inspired by never leaving Altihex.

The senator sighed deeply as he looked out across the water at his home.

“I may not have any sort of family unit in place, but I’ll miss this place. I trust the mecha I’ve chosen to lead the city in my absence.”

And in case of his death, because Sherma planned for all possibilities. Altihex would not fall into the clutches of anyone else.

 

“The future’s calling us, darling. I think it’s time we ran out to meet it.” Momus held up his glass for a toast. “We might die, or get punished in any other way our delightfully vicious colleagues can think of.”

“Here’s to burning down the world, and the bastards along with it.”

 

“Not sure if we should be toasting that,” Sherma’s glass met Momus’ anyway, for better or for worse. They were a formidable team, and Sherma was quite sure they could keep each other from harm more or less. Being alone with this kind of secret would be a death sentence, but together?

“I’ll face anything with you.”

FIN


End file.
